


Empty Nights

by lounonymouse



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Breaking and Entering, But not as you know them, Grief/Mourning, Hate to Love, M/M, No Smut, Past Character Death, Popstar Louis, Radio Host Nick Grimshaw, References to Depression, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-08-29 04:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16736859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lounonymouse/pseuds/lounonymouse
Summary: Nick Grimshaw is struggling to adapt to his new job as host of Drive – he's embarrassed about being 'demoted' and, instead of confronting his feelings, he's attempting to drink and party his woes away and is one drunken mistake away from being fired. Louis Tomlinson is still grieving his mother's untimely death and is obsessed with writing the 'perfect' album in her honour, working all day and night, forgetting to eat and sleep and rarely leaving the house.When Nick gets a phone call from Harry Styles asking him to go to the house of a 'friend of a friend of a friend' to retrieve a mysterious biscuit tin he left there, Nick finds himself ringing the doorbell of Louis Tomlinson, the up-and-coming popstar he last met when he accidentally threw up all over him mid-radio interview. Louis shuts the door in Nick's face so Nick decides his only course of action is to break in and steal the tin...And so begins a complicated, messy and not-always-law-abiding journey of two men who might think they hate each other but are actually meant to be. If they could only pull their heads out of their arses, they'd work that out. And maybe they'd even find out what's inside Harry's mysterious biscuit tin ...





	Empty Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lululawrence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lululawrence/gifts).



> Hello! This is my first ever fic so I hope you like it! *cowers in fear*
> 
> This was written for the lovely lululawrence - I mixed two of your prompts together (a bit of prompt 1 and 4 - hope that's okay). I really, really hope you like what I've done. 
> 
> I tagged everything I could think of but if I've missed something, please let me know. The past character death reference is for Jay so if that's not something you want to read about, please click out of this fic now. It's not a big part of the story, I don't think, but maybe better safe than sorry. 
> 
> Not all the characters tagged make an appearance - most are just referred to. It's really only Louis and Nick, with a bit of Zayn, Harry and Fizzy.
> 
> Massive thanks to the exchange mods, to lululawrence for the excellent prompts and to the loveliest beta to ever beta, Angela :)
> 
> If you enjoy the story, let me know!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own or know the people in this story. This story is completely fictional and does not represent the real life people named at all.
> 
> Not to be replicated or reposted anywhere in any way, shape or form.

 

**EMPTY NIGHTS**

Someone is using a jackhammer in Nick’s brain.

He’s been awake for ten minutes but hasn’t opened his eyes yet – too scared of finding himself in a strange house or discovering that the damp sensation where his cheek is mushed against a couch cushion isn’t just drool but perhaps oozing blood from a head wound (because he was so, so, _so_ incredibly drunk last night and the chances of him having tripped and cracked his head open before falling asleep on his – or a stranger’s – couch is pretty damn high). But his fear of these two possibilities is not as great as his hatred for the tiny, vindictive, arsehole of a psychopath who has crawled into his ear just to jackhammer Nick’s brain to death.

Because, no, he is not merely hungover. There really _is_ a tiny man in his head wielding a miniature jackhammer, obliterating Nick’s much-needed brain cells. 

Nick groans and contemplates rolling over so at least he’s no longer breathing in the stale stench of his own alcohol-drenched drool but he can’t move because of the pain that squeezes the air from his lungs when he even so much as breathes, not to mention the unrepentant, throbbing, high-pitched _nrrrgggggghhh_ of the jackhammer drilling deep into his brain.

He’s probably still drunk, if he thinks about it, which he’s not going to because even thinking hurts. It feels like he only just closed his eyes; Nick’s not sure what time he went to bed (if falling face-first onto a couch and passing out counts as going to bed) and he sure as hell can’t remember what happened last night to leave him in this barely alive state.

Unless he’s dead and this is the afterlife?

No way. Surely death would be more peaceful than this – less jackhammers and more sexy angels lounging on fluffy white clouds, feeding each other grapes and playing harps and being all blissful and peaceful and sexy. Right?

Unless this is Hell …

With a groan, Nick rolls onto his side, picking cushion-fluff from his tongue and blinking open his eyes.

Which is a mistake.

Nick quickly closes his eyes again and reminds himself that, hey, at least he’s alive and the dark patch on the cushion is one-hundred percent drool, not an ounce of oozing-head-wound blood to be found. And it’s his house and there are no naked strangers as far as he could tell in those few seconds he’d opened his eyes so there’s little chance of a drunken sexcapade being sold to the Daily Mail. Which is all good. Excellent, even. If Nick could move a muscle without it hurting like a bitch then he would pat himself on the back for managing to wake up alive and alone in his own home.

Unfortunately, Nick can’t stay on his couch all day, eyes scrunched closed, pretending the real world doesn’t exist (oh, if only). With another groan, Nick blinks his eyes open again and...

Ugh. Still a mistake.

Not because the light pierces his eyes like a thousand swords or because the tiny arsehole wielding the jackhammer in his head suddenly flicks the switch to ‘maximum pain.’

No, opening his eyes is a mistake because of the note.

It’s propped up against a pile of books on his coffee table so whoever put it there could guarantee it would be the first thing Nick saw when he woke up. It’s a scrap torn from one of the many journals he owns, journals with ornate covers and gold-tipped edges and many, _many_ blank pages because he never actually gets around to using them. Nick squints at it and thinks it looks like a toddler wrote it. Or one of those elephants who paints with their trunk. Nick blinks and rubs his eyes and peers closer.

It’s his handwriting. Or, more specifically, it’s Drunk Nick’s handwriting.

Because Nick wrote himself a note, while drunk, propped it up against a stack of books so he’d see it first thing in the morning and then passed out on the couch, and if that isn’t an omen for the worst kind of trouble then Nick doesn’t know what is.

But Nick is curious to a fault so he picks up the note and holds it right up to his face because Drunk Nick was thoughtful enough to take out his contact lenses so Hungover Nick wouldn’t have to deal with dry, gritty eyes but not thoughtful enough to leave his glasses within arm’s reach. 

 _Hey arsehole_ , says the note, _just a friendly reminder – because you’ll be so fucking hungover tomorrow that you’ll probably forget – that you’re a loser and you don’t have a job to get up for because you’re a loser and they gave you a week’s ‘sick leave’ to sort your shit out because you’re a loser so when you wake up and panic because you think you’ve overslept and you’re going to be late to your stupid fucking radio show (and not Breakfast, if you’re so fucking hungover that you still think you host the Breakfast show – ha! No, you loser, they demoted you months ago and now you host Drive, like a loser) well, just relax, okay? You don’t have anywhere to go. So just turn over, go back to sleep and keep on being a loser, you loser. Love, Nick._

Right.

Okay.

So.

Opening his eyes was definitely a mistake. Because now Nick remembers. He _remembers_.

The whole point of going out and getting drunk enough to wake up with a tiny man jackhammering his brain cells into oblivion was to forget. Drinking to forget is something Nick is actually very good at. If it was an Olympic sport, he’d be the reigning British champion. Probably hold the world record or something.

And Nick has a lot of things he wants – _needs_ – to forget. That he is so damn close to losing his job is just the last in a long line of many, _many_ things that Nick was trying to forget. Except Drunk Nick had clearly decided that Hungover Nick wasn’t allowed to forget about his job woes.

Drunk Nick is a vindictive arsehole.

The fact that Nick is about to lose his job isn’t even his fault. It’s Daisy’s fault. She’d ambushed him. He hadn’t seen her – or any of his friends, really – for weeks. He’d been dodging their texts and phone calls but Daisy had shown up unannounced on Thursday and had pushed her way through his front door even though Nick was hungover and desperately wanted to be alone (the fact that Nick is hungover ninety percent of the time these days is neither here nor there).

“No offence, Daisy, but unless you’re here to deliver me a full English breakfast then I’m not in the mood,” he’d said but Daisy had just started waving her arms about and yapping at him for _hours_ and _hours_ and fucking _hours_ about how, “This is a fucking intervention so listen up. You’re in a downward spiral, Grimmy. You’re going out every night with those d-list leeches and drowning your liver in booze and making an utter fool of yourself in the tabloids and pushing all your real friends away. So why? What happened? Alexa says it’s because your job is suffocating you. Is it? Just talk to me about it, babe.”

And that. That was so _not_ what Nick wanted to talk about.

Because despite the press release that had gushed about how ‘excited Nick was to take on a new challenge with the drive-time slot’ every goddamn person and their dog knew he’d been demoted. The whole bloody country was talking behind his back, laughing at him because they knew he was passed his used-by-date and that this new time slot was just the first step on the way out the door for good. Bye-bye dream career.  

So, no. Nick was _not_ going to talk about that because talking about it – saying it out loud – was admitting it was true and Nick was firmly living in denial and loving it, thank you very much, and if Daisy and his other friends couldn’t accept that then that was their problem, not his.

So, he’d kicked her out – told her thank you very much for your concern, Daisy dearest, but I’m fine, I’m brilliant, I’m tip-top and dandy – and the second he’d closed the door on her pitying frown he’d done what any self-respecting, borderline-alcoholic radio DJ would do after an intervention.

He went out and got absolutely smashed.

And then he’d turned up to work the next day still half-drunk and completely unaware that he was supposed to be interviewing latest indie pop sensation, Louis freaking Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson, who walked into Nick’s studio with his bluer than blue eyes and his sharper than sharp cheekbones and the best arse to ever arse in the history of arseing. And there was Nick – stinking of booze, bloodshot eyes, tumbleweed hair, the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before, stain down the front of his shirt that he hoped to God was just garlic sauce from the kebab he’d woofed down for breakfast.

Louis was an up-and-coming music superstar. He’d burst out of nowhere with _the_ hit of the summer – _Just Hold On_ – and followed it up with a top-ten EP that proved he was as good a songwriter as he was pretty. And by God was he pretty. Maybe his hair needed a trim and the dark circles under his eyes meant he could do with a good night’s sleep but he was still a fucking angel.

But Nick was a professional – even though he’d technically forgotten Louis was coming in that day – and he’d pulled himself together and opened the interview with a charming quip about the attractive brunette girl Louis had recently been pictured in all the rags with. Maybe he’d try the heart monitor gag he’d done with Harry back when he still did Breakfast. 

Except Louis freaking Tomlinson had screwed up his nose and looked at Nick like he was dog shit staining the soles of his Gucci trainers. “I don’t talk about that bullshit,” he’d snapped. “I only talk about the music. You might look like you crawled out of a gutter, Grimshaw, but you don’t have to ask the gutter journalist questions, all right?”

Well, then.

Of course, Nick was a grown man, he’d faced his share of disappointments and he was quick-witted and a fucking professional, all right, so he knew how to roll with the punches and think on his feet and he knew exactly how to turn this interview around so it wasn’t going to be yet another reason for the entire nation to gossip about what a screw-up he was and taking bets on when he’d get fired for good.

Except when Nick opened his mouth to ask another question, his tired, hungover body decided that live on air with the most beautiful but annoyingly snooty boy he’d ever met was the perfect time to expel this morning’s kebab.

That’s right: Nick threw up all over Louis Tomlinson’s brand-new Gucci trainers live on air.

And it had all gone rather downhill from there.

Louis had stormed off immediately and Nick had cued up five songs in a row so he could cry into his coffee. Needless to say, straight after his shift ended, Nick had been hauled into an office all the way up the very top of the BBC – his boss’s boss’s boss’s boss (Nick didn’t even know the guy’s name because of course they’d never met before, hadn’t ever needed to. Something beginning with B – Bruce? Barry? Bart?) and he was told, in no uncertain terms, that this was his last strike. One more mistake from Nick and he’d be out the door.

“I’m not kidding around, Grimmy, you’ll be finished. Banned for life,” the guy had said, eyes bulging and face red. “I mean, it’s bad enough that you’re out every other night papped stumbling out of nightclubs with _Love Island_ rejects and showing up hungover to work but this, this was ...” He ran his eyes up and down Nick like Nick was a skid mark.

Nick, of course, had just sat there, slumped in his chair and chewing on his lips, trying not to cry and wondering why the hell he was about to cry anyway. Did he even give a stuff about his job? Wasn’t that part of the problem?

The guy – Brian? Ben? Bradly? – had sighed, tossing aside a bunch of papers on his otherwise neat desk and leaning forward. “Do you even want to be here, Nick?” he’d asked and Nick had closed his eyes because no, he didn’t want to be here, not in this office being told off by Barnaby? Basil? Beau? while still reeking of his own vomit and while the look on Louis Tomlinson’s face when Nick’s vomit splashed halfway up his trouser legs was still imprinted on his mind. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop seeing that look of pure, unadulterated disgust. But did that mean he didn’t want his job at all? Fucked if Nick knew – he couldn’t even articulate what the hell was wrong with him so how the bloody hell was he supposed to know how to fix it? Angry at being demoted was one thing but leaving his job entirely was ... Nick didn’t want to even think about it.

Bentley? Brandon? Byron? ran a hand through his thinning red hair and leaned back. “I don’t know, Nick,” he said. “Maybe you should take some time off. Think about what you want. _Really_ think about it. You’ve been with us long enough that I’m prepared to cut you some slack. For the time being we’ll release a statement – we’ll call it the flu – and say you need a week off to recuperate. It’ll explain the, eh, what happened with Tomlinson. Just stay home for a week and think about your future. Because if you’re going to keep turning up hungover and being unprofessional then we’re going to have to let you go. Decide what you want and give me a call next Friday, all right?”

And that was that.

Nick was on ‘sick leave’ for a week and mere days away from deciding if he wanted to quit his job, the only job he’d ever known, really, and the job he’d worked his arse off for years to have. Sure, right now he hated it but if he quit then what next? He was sure at least ninety percent of his DND was tied up in his identity as Nick Grimshaw, Radio One DJ. He couldn’t just rip that part of himself out and expect that he’d survive, could he?

Having been told to keep a low profile over the week naturally meant that Nick had gone out the last three nights in a row and gotten gloriously and hideously and publicly drunk. All with the intention of forgetting he had a life-changing decision to make and hopefully forgetting the image of his partly-digested kebab sliding down Louis Tomlinson’s trouser leg.

So yeah.

It was Daisy’s fault.

And Louis freaking Tomlinson’s fault.

And that kebab’s fault.

And it was Drunk Nick’s fault for being a vindictive arse and writing that note reminding Hungover Nick what a loser he was.

Realising that he didn’t need to get up because he didn’t have a radio show to host today, Nick balled up the note in his fist and threw it across the room before rolling over and closing his eyes.

Maybe if he slept for the rest of the week he would wake up knowing what the hell he was going to do with his life.

 

*  *  *

 

As soon as Louis senses someone leaning against the doorjamb, quietly watching him from behind, his shoulders stiffen. He knows who it is and, worse, he knows exactly what they’re about to say.

“Have you slept at all, Lou?”

Bingo.

Louis half-heartedly wonders if Zayn knows how predictable he is these days – Louis knows that, as his manager, Zayn is expected to give a damn about him, but he also knows that, as his best friend since first-year uni, Zayn doesn’t do anything because he’s expected to – he does it because he cares deeply and for that alone Louis loves him more than anything. Still, doesn’t mean that every time Zayn is on his case that it pisses Louis off any less.

“Have you eaten?” persists Zayn. “Have you taken a break? Have you gone out and got drunk and danced and hooked up with random guys or done any of the things a normal twenty-six-year-old would do?”

It’s early enough in the day for Zayn’s voice to still be a little croaky. Early for Zayn is of course late for Louis – it’s twelve, maybe. Or one. Or two. It was about eleven the last time Louis checked but that was a while ago so, really, he’s got no clue what time it is. When he’s writing he tends to get lost – he can sit at the piano and suddenly he’s resurfacing from some kind of trance and it’s hours later and he’s got no idea how long he’s been under the spell. He really does forget about sleeping and eating and everything else. But he’s hardly going to admit that to Zayn.

He grunts a reply in the affirmative and hears Zayn sigh in response. “You’re lying but okay,” says Zayn as he steps into the room, dragging his socked feet across the carpet to stand next to Louis, who is hunched over the piano, scribbling notes in the margins of his music sheet. He just has to fix the bridge of this song – something isn’t working only he can’t figure out what.

Zayn ghosts his hand over Louis’ shoulder before reaching up to tug at a long strand of Louis’ hair that has fallen across his face and been tickling his nose for ages now. Truthfully, it’s been pissing Louis off all morning but he can’t find it in himself to stop working on the song to even fix his too-long hair. He needs to get a cut; he should tell Zayn to schedule it in. Or he should just get a hair tie. Or shave the whole thing off, Brittney style. Yeah, because that would go down well with Zayn.

Zayn tugs playfully on the strand before tucking it behind Louis’ ear. When Louis doesn’t respond he sighs again, louder this time. Louis can tell by the smell that Zayn’s already had a cigarette or two this morning but it doesn’t seem to have calmed his worries. 

“How’s the song going anyway? Niall left late so I guess you guys got some good stuff done.”

Louis scribbles out an entire line of lyrics – the metre is all wrong, the words aren’t flowing like they should. Maybe he should scrap the whole thing and start again? Niall, the only one he trusts enough to work closely with on his songs, had stayed until maybe two am, telling Louis with a yawn that they’d done all they could for the night and that they both needed to rest. Louis had agreed, of course, seen Niall to the door with a hug and then went right on back to the music room to keep working.

Because this album _has_ to be perfect and this – this turd he’s been trying to polish into a diamond all night – is not perfect. It’s trash. It’s shit. It’s awful. Louis is a fraud and he can’t write a song to save his life and shit, is that his stomach rumbling? God, he hopes Zayn can’t hear it.

With a frustrated groan, Louis throws the pen to the ground and reaches for the music sheet; he’s going to chuck the whole song out, scrunch it up into a ball, toss it into the already overflowing bin and then set the whole bin on fire. Probably the whole house. 

But Zayn is too quick. Out shoots his hand, wrapping around Louis’ wrist and pinning it in the air.

“Don’t,” Zayn says, sharp.

For the first time Louis turns to look at his best friend and manager. And shit, Zayn’s forehead is all wrinkled with worry and there are unhappy lines carved into the corners of his mouth and he looks tired and pitying and so, so worried.

“You’ll regret chucking it out,” Zayn says. “I know you’ve written hundreds of songs by now and have at least ten albums you could put out – all of them fucking amazing by the way – but you’ve been working on this song for forever and you’ll regret it. I know what it means to you.”

Louis shakes his head but Zayn squeezes his grip a little harder around Louis’ wrist and tugs him to standing.

“Lou, you’re just tired and frustrated. You need to take a break.” His voice is gentle and slow like he’s talking to a toddler having a tantrum. It pisses Louis off but now that he’s standing he feels faint and tired and hungry and he doesn’t have it in him to fight.

Zayn lifts his chin, forcing Louis to look him in the eye. “Eat,” he says, “then sleep and when you wake up you can look at the song with fresh eyes and you’ll see that it’s better than you think it is.” Zayn’s deep brown eyes are earnest as he stares down Louis, as if challenging him to disagree. Louis would _love_ to disagree – hell, if there’s anything in this world Louis loves almost as much as writing music it’s disagreeing with people, sometimes just for the hell of it – but he’s also scared that the second he opens his mouth he’ll start bawling. It sometimes comes on like this, he’ll be fine and then this weight falls over him, it feels like someone poured a ton of concrete inside of him and he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t feel anything other than a deep, insidious pain that he knows will never leave because he’ll never have the balls to face it head-on. He’s scared that if he faces it he will break in a way that can never fully be repaired, like when you glue a vase back together only it never quite fits right and there’s always cracks.

He was feeling like this just a few days ago, when he’d walked into Radio One for his first major radio appearance. He’d worked himself into a panic about it – what if he said something stupid? What if his mind went blank and he couldn’t think of anything to say at all? He _loved_ talking about music – the craft of it, finding the perfect word and building the perfect melody from a single note to a whole song capable of moving people to tears – but didn’t know if he’d be eloquent enough when push came to shove. He’d felt the weight descend on him, felt the shortness of breath and the panic pulsing through his veins.

Zayn had only just managed to calm him down when that hipster Grimshaw had walked in, drunk and disheveled and still somehow the hottest guy Louis had ever seen. And Louis already knew a little about him – knew he was well into music, a proper snob about it, and he felt calm for a second because this guy, no matter the state he looked, would make this interview good. They’d talk about favourite bands and musical heroes and the craft of songwriting and it would be amazing. Only Grimshaw had gone and opened his massive gob and straight up asked Louis about those photos, all with this glint in his eye, this hungry-shark-about-to-devour-it’s-prey kind of glint and that’s when Louis understood – not only was this guy ignorant enough to believe the tabloid nonsense about a ‘mystery brunette’ (which, gross, it was his sister, Fizzy) but if Louis didn’t shut this door right now, he’d never get to talk about the music in any interview ever. If he started his career talking about mystery brunettes then that’s how it was going to continue – he’d only ever get to talk about who he’s fucking or who he’d like to fuck and no, just _no_. Louis was in this business for a reason and it wasn’t to talk shit about his personal life. Hell, he didn’t even have a personal life to talk about.

Of course, then the vomit thing had happened and _ugh_. It would be a cold day in hell before Louis let Zayn talk him into being interviewed again.

“Lou?” Zayn tugs lightly on his wrist bringing him back to the now.

Louis nods because, yeah, maybe he does need a break. He lets Zayn lead him out of the music room and into the kitchen, where he pushes him gently into one of the bar stools and shoves a plate of fruit and toast and a mug of lukewarm tea in front of him.

“Eat,” says Zayn and then leans against the bench on the opposite side to Louis.

Louis takes a bite of toast under Zayn’s watchful eyes; it’s cold and scratches his throat so he washes it down with the lukewarm tea. He doesn’t really care. He doesn’t eat for pleasure these days, just shovels down whatever Zayn’s tells him to and it all tastes like cardboard. He swallows and sneaks a look at Zayn. He’s frowning, like always. Louis hates being the cause of all that worry.

“I’m not losing the plot or anything,” he says and he hopes he sounds reasonable and not like the crazed screw-up he really is deep down inside. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Zayn’s frown depends but he doesn’t say anything.

“I just need this album to be perfect.” Louis takes another bite because he knows Zayn will tell him off if he doesn’t. “There’s a lot of expectation now and just like any artist, I want to make everyone see I’m worth their investment.” He shrugs like he’s just being reasonable, just laying out the cold, hard facts, but he’s starting to talk too fast, his words blurring together and that’s never a good sign. He knows he’s rambling, knows he’s too desperate for Zayn to understand why he is the way he is. “With the single and the EP doing so well,” he adds, “I just don’t want this opportunity to slip away. Not after I’ve worked so hard for it. The songs _have_ to be perfect, Zayn. They have to be. I’ve got so much I need to say and I just ... I’m only going to get one chance to debut and it has to be perfect. It _has_ to be. Zayn, you don’t–” 

Zayn reaches across and closes his hand over Louis’ fist; Louis didn’t even realise he had made the fist. He’s breathing hard, struggling to suck enough air in.

“I know, all right?” says Zayn, eyes soft. “I get it. I get why. I know what you and Jay talked about before–”

Louis stands suddenly, sending the butter knife spinning and crashing to the tiles. Louis doesn’t know where to look and, shit, he still can’t seem to suck in enough air.

“Lou ...” Zayn makes to move around the counter but Louis steps back.

“It’s fine. Everything is fine.” He holds up both hands and steps back again. “You said I should sleep and you’re right. So.”

He pushes his unruly hair out of his face and hurries out of the room without looking at Zayn. He can’t look him in the eye and see the concern he knows will be there. Not right now.

Louis hurries to his bedroom, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His cheeks are damp and he rubs at them desperately. God, why can’t he just forget it? Forget everything shit that’s happened and just write the goddamn album he knows he has it in him to write. For a second he thinks about diverting and going back to the music room – it could be a good distraction, right? He’s not even sure if he’ll be able to sleep anyway – when he’s writing he has trouble switching off his brain, the ideas tumble over one another at a hundred miles per hour and he ends up tossing and turning until he gives up and goes to sit at the piano. But even Louis knows that sometimes he has to sleep. Has to make a conscious effort to switch his brain off and at least try to get some rest. So, he keeps walking toward his bedroom and when he’s inside he yanks off all his clothes and crawls under the covers, mind and heart still racing, whole body trembling.

One time at the hospital when Louis was watching his mother sleeping, trying not to think about how much he hated the word ‘terminal’ and how much he wanted to find every dictionary in the world just to scratch out that word so it could no longer exist and it could no longer hurt his mother, he suddenly couldn’t breathe. He keeled forward and tried to suck in air but it was like all the bad thoughts had lodged in his throat, blocking his airways. He only started to come too when he felt a warm hand rubbing circles on his back and a woman in blue scrubs was knelt in front of him, her mouth moving like she was speaking but Louis couldn’t hear a word. He focused on the movement of her lips until the sound of her voice found a way to his ears and she was telling him to count his breaths. “Breathe in and hold your breath for three counts and then let it out slowly, as slow as you can, love,” she was saying. “Then again, breathe in and count to three, that’s right, you’re doing so well, love. Now let the air out slowly again, count to three if you have to. That’s it ...”

The nurse had said it was a panic attack but he knew that already because he’d had them before. The nurse told him he should see someone about it except he never did. Because that would be like admitting something was wrong and Louis didn’t want to do that. Just like he didn’t want to admit that there was anything wrong with his mother, not even when he was in the car on the way to her funeral.

So, Louis tucks the covers close around him and closes his eyes, counting out his breaths like the nurse showed him until his chest is rising slow and calm and even.

Everything is great when he can just focus on the music and doesn’t let himself think about anything else. Music is all that matters. His mum had told him to go for it, to follow his dream, so that’s what he was doing. He’d tried out for _X Factor_ when he was just a kid and been rejected three times but he didn’t let that stop him. He got an extra part-time job and bought himself singing lessons and when he finished college he got into a music course at Manchester and he spent every free second practicing piano and guitar and singing and writing songs because he told his mum he was going to be a star and there was no way in hell he was going to let her down. He didn’t have time for partying or relationships or friends or anything that wasn’t his music. He didn’t have time for panic attacks or losing the plot, either.

He had to stay focused and make his mum proud.

It was the only thing that mattered.

 

*  *  *

 

Later, Nick is pretending he needs to buy milk at Tescos when really he’s just stocking up on booze and fearfully checking if he made the front cover of any of the tabloids, when his phone rings.

He runs through the possibilities of who it could be but none are people he could bare to talk to right now. Can’t his friends and family leave him to wallow in his misery in peace? 

He presses his forehead against the tinned tomatoes and contemplates leaving his phone on the shelf and just walking away. He’ll become a monk in Mongolia, shave his head and swear off technology (and sex and booze and men). He could do it. He’s not completely addicted to his phone. Not these days anyway, not when there are so many people whose calls and texts he needs to dodge.  

He takes a deep breath and digs into his pocket – he’ll just check who it is before rejecting the call. He always has been curious to a fault.

And shit.

It’s Harry.

The thing about Harry Styles is that he’s impossible to ignore. He has this pout, see? And these soulful green eyes and baby face and that fucking pout. Nick can’t see him, obviously, but he can picture him perfectly: chewing his lip in worry because Nick isn’t answering and then that fucking pout when it goes to voicemail. God, Nick knows that pout will haunt his dreams until he picks up the phone and talks to Harry.

At least Harry is probably in LA – he’s _always_ in LA because these days he’s a successful pop star with a budding acting career – so he probably has no idea that Nick is a public laughing stock right now. The articles speculating about the truth behind Nick’s sudden absence from the airwaves have been coming thick and fast, especially because hardly a night has gone by without Nick papped stumbling out of nightclubs, clearly suffering from a bad case of too-much-vodka-itis and not, like the press release stated, the flu. But even though Nick is big news in the UK, he’s a nobody in the States so Harry is no doubt blissfully ignorant of Nick’s downward spiral.

And the truth is, Nick’s not even sure where he and Harry stand these days. Coming off his win at _X Factor_ aged just sixteen, Harry and Nick had become surprise best friends over night. It had caused Nick no amount of grief in the tabloids and in his Twitter mentions – everybody loves the predatory gay man narrative after all – but Harry was just the sweetest, funniest, dorkiest, nicest guy Nick had met in a long time and Harry had needed someone to take him under their wing, keep the vultures at bay and show him the ropes of celebrity-land. Nick wasn’t sure he was the best person for the job but Harry had a bit of a hero worship thing going on and Nick had ego enough to want to wear the hero cape for as long as Harry was his willing sidekick.

But of course, Harry was too good – too talented, too ambitions – to hide under Nick’s wing for long. Nick didn’t resent him for it, never would, but it made him sad to realise he couldn’t remember the last time they’d even spoken, let alone met up face-to-face.

As the phone rang out and not two seconds later started ringing again, Nick sighed. Because, yeah. The thing about Harry Styles is that he’s impossible to ignore.

Nick swipes to answer and holds the phone to his ear with a trembling hand. “H, sorry. Couldn’t find my phone for a second. Stupid coat pockets.” He tries to keep his voice light and breezy and carefree but can’t seem to stem the tell-tale waver.

“Nick!” Harry practically shouts. “Thank god, I was about to throw an actual strop in the middle of the airport and that would _not_ be good. Can you imagine the headlines?”

Headlines about a celebrity having a public meltdown? Nah, Nick can’t relate.

Nick laughs but it sounds fake to even his ears. “What are you going to have a strop about, young Harold? And why are you in an airport?” He should keep his voice down seeing as though he’s in the middle of Tescos and every shopper within earshot is no doubt secretly recording this whole thing, hoping to sell a video of Nick snorting coke off of the tinned corn.

Nick hears Harry take a deep breath. “Um. Okay. So, here’s the thing, Grimmy. I’m sort of in the UK?”

Nick’s heart stops – fuck, he’s going to have heart attack because if Harry is in the UK then ...

“I mean, I _was_ in the UK,” Harry rushes to say, “but like just for a couple of days for meetings and work and a quick hello to mum and Gems and now I’m at Heathrow flying back to LA and I, like, I _know_ I should have told you and arranged to meet up because it’s been ages but honestly I was only here for a little while and I figured you’d still be adjusting to your new job – which, congrats by the way, I haven’t caught up with all that but you must be having a blast, right? No more early mornings and having to be in bed by nine like a grandma, right?”

Nick feels hot all over, a sharp, prickly heat like a swarm of bees blanketing every inch of his skin. God, he hopes he’s not about to have an asthma attack. He didn’t bring his pump because he was just supposed to be nipping down to Tescos for milk (and vodka. So much vodka).

“Anyway,” says Harry. “Long story short, I kind of need you to do me a favour. I tried everyone else believe me but they’re either not in London or not answering and I _really_ need the favour now. Like, this minute even. Yesterday would have been too late, if you get what I mean?” Harry laughs, only it gets drowned out by some sort of announcement in the background. “Shit, my flight’s leaving and I have to board,” he says quickly. “Um. Yeah. So, can you help me? Nick? Please?”

Nick shakes his head, trying to dislodge the jumbled thoughts in his brain until they form some kind of cohesive pattern. Because he’s not sure what’s happening right now. “You need me to do something for you, Harry?” he says, just to be clear.

“Thank you, yeah,” says Harry and breathes a sigh of relief even though Nick hasn’t actually said he’ll help yet. “I’ll owe you. In a big way. Massive. I’ll let you name my first born. Or maybe not. As much as I love Pig, it’s like the worst name ever for a dog, isn’t it? So, another favour. Something equally big but not the name of my first-born child.”

Nick rubs his face with his hand. He’s too old and too tired and too hungover and too washed up for this. “Harry.”

“Yes, Nick?”

A woman swerves her trolley around Nick, who is, admittedly, standing in the middle of the canned goods isle. She glares at him over her shoulder and Nick’s middle finger aches with the need to flip her off but he can just picture tomorrows headlines. “What’s the actual favour, Harry?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’m a bit frazzled at the moment. Airports always make me a bit _blergh_ , you know?”

“The favour, Harry?”

“Right. So, I sort of left something really, really, _really_ important at this friend’s house. Well, a friend of a friend of a friend, you know how it is. He’s got a heap of songs he’s not using and I was looking to buy some – they’re amazing, by the way, wait ‘til you hear them. There’s this one called _Miss You_ that just fucking rocks, you know? It’s like punk and pop and then there’s this string section, which you totally don’t expect, only I don’t think he’ll sell that one to me but I could –”

“Harry ...”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Harry clears his throat and Nick can hear the rustle as he’s moving, can hear the lady checking off his ticket and telling him to have a good flight. “So, it’s this tin, right? Like one of those ye olde biscuit tins with like a country house and teddy bears and shit all over it. You know what I mean, right? I bet your Nan pulled one out every time you came over for a visit when you were a kid.”

Nick bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop from screaming. He doesn’t know why he wants to scream but he really, really, _really_ does. “Let me get this straight,” he says and somehow his voice is steady. “You need me to drop by some stranger’s house and pick up a biscuit tin that you left behind, is that what you’re telling me, Harry? Because as much as I love you, H, I’ve kind of got some shit going on right now and–”

“No!” says Harry and giggles – _actually_ giggles like the cute bastard he is. “The tin isn’t important; it’s what’s _inside_ the tin that I need. And it’s, like, the most important thing. Ever. I mean, I can’t even believe I left it behind, it’s _that_ important, you know? The tin is nothing, just something I had lying around. Now that I think about it, I think my Nan _did_ give it to me, like, for Christmas? So maybe it’s got, like, Christmas stuff on it? Santa maybe and elves of course and I think it had shortbread in it only it doesn’t anymore because I ate the lot. Sorry. In case you thought you’d maybe get some shortbread as, like, thanks for picking the tin up for me. I guess I could buy you shortbread. Do you want shortbread, Grimmy?”

Nick take a deep breath and counts to ten. “What’s inside the tin, Harry? And why can’t you just call the guy and explain that–” 

There’s sudden rustling and static and Harry lowers his voice to a whisper. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry but I have to hang up now, Nick. The flight attendant is glaring at me because I was supposed to turn my phone to aeroplane mode _ages_ ago. She’s kind of hot actually but that’s not the point, is it? The point is you’re my very best friend in the whole entire world and I’m sorry we didn’t get to catch up this time but we’ll plan something next time and I’ll owe you _forever_ for doing this for me and I love you and I’ll text you the address as soon as I hang up, okay?”

“But I –”

“Thanks, Nick. You’re the absolute bestest. Love you. Thanks. Got to go. Sorry. Love you. Bye.”

“Harry, I–”

There’s a dial tone in Nick’s ear because Harry has hung up on him.

Jesus titty-fucking Christ.

With his mouth hanging open, Nick stares at his phone until it goes black and he keeps staring at it until it lights up again seconds later with an incoming text. From Harry, of course, and it’s an address in Hampstead Heath complete with about fifty ‘x’s and three aubergine emojis because Harry is that kind of guy.

Nick thinks about texting Harry to tell him: _no_. He is one hundred percent absolutely _not_ fronting up at some stranger’s house for a fucking ye olde, Nanna-style biscuit tin. Not today.

But then what else is Nick going to do? Other than get drunk and cry over the shitty things a bunch of shitty Twitter trolls are saying about him. He’s got hours to kill before he can reasonably go out and lose himself in booze and pounding music and anonymous men, so he doesn’t really have an excuse. And then, of course, there’s Harry’s pout to take into consideration and let’s be honest, Harry’s pout is the number one reason why Nick is one hundred percent absolutely going to front up to some stranger’s house for a fucking ye olde, Nanna-style biscuit tin.

So, Nick pockets his phone and lifts up his basket full of crisps and vodka and heads to the front of the store to pay.

Looks like Nick is trekking to Hampstead Health.  

   

*  *  *

 

The house in Hampstead Heath wouldn’t look out of place on Harry’s ye olde biscuit tin: it’s quaint and white and with a thatched roof and Nick would find it charming if he didn’t swear to God it was the scene of grizzly murder in an episode of _Midsomer Murders_.

His boots crunch on the gravel as he makes his way up the drive – this friend of Harry’s can’t be famous because there’s no security gate or intercom or anything. He’s just waltzing right up to the front door, unannounced. Now that he thinks about it, Harry never did tell him the guy’s name.

He raps his knuckles against the door and stands back a step, clearing his throat and trying to recall how you go about this whole interacting with strangers thing. He used to know how to make an impression – a _good_ impression. He could be anyone’s best mate within two seconds of meeting them; he was the king of charm. Now, he’s the king of awkward. Is that a thing? Maybe Nick can make that a thing. Maybe awkward is the new charming. He could get that printed on a t-shirt. Do another collab with Topshop.

The door opens and ... fuckity fuckity fuck.

Nick wants the ground to open up and swallow him because standing in the open doorway in a pair of low-slung, comfy-looking Adidas trackies and _nothing else_ is Louis freaking Tomlinson.

“Shit,” breathes Nick.

Louis looks him up and down. He’d look angry if it weren’t for the confusion creasing his forehead.

“I could say the same thing,” he says and Nick self-combusts into a pile of ash because, yeah, he’d forgotten that, as much as Louis is a dream to look at, he’s even better to listen to. His is the kind of melodic, angelic voice that makes everything sound like poetry. He could read the back of a cereal box and literature professors around the world would cum in their pants. “Have you just knocked on my door to gawp at me,” he says when Nick has done nothing but stare at him for a full minute, “or is there a reason you’re here? Because honestly, if you’re not here to bring me a new pair of shoes then you can pretty much just piss off.”

Nick swallows hard, willing himself not to notice the golden glimmer of hair dusting Louis’ chest and the assortment of weird and wonderful tattoos and the subtle definition of muscle and the very obvious lack of underwear beneath those trackies and ...

Shit.

“Okay, this is getting weird now,” says Louis. He rolls his eyes then grabs hold of the door, ready to slam it in Nick’s face. “I guess you’re here to apologise for ruining my shoes. My _favourite_ shoes. Well, fine. Apology accepted. Now go home, take a fucking shower and eat a fucking vegetable or something. You look like utter shit.”

Nick opens his mouth to protest – he did not come here to be judged by this upstart prick and if anyone needed to eat a fucking vegetable it’s this skinny bastard standing in front of him – but before he can utter a word, the door is slammed shut in his face.

“What the fuck?” Nick blinks at the now firmly shut door before thumping his fist against it hard enough to hurt. “Open up, arsehole!”

When the door remains closed despite repeated bashings, Nick throws his head back to the sky. “Lord, give me the strength to deal with arsehole popstars,” he says, “and popstars that are _not_ arseholes but still ask far too much of their friends by making them cross half of fucking London looking for lost fucking biscuit tins. Amen.” 

Nick tries knocking a few more times, trying to instil a sense of ‘okay, sorry I stared at you weirdly when you first answered the door and sorry for spewing on your favourite trainers and sorry for shouting obscenities outside your door when you shut me out but I’m calm now and I just want you to open the door so I can pick up something my friend left behind’ into each knock. Clearly, it doesn’t work because ten minutes later Louis still hasn’t answered the door.

Nick’s knuckles are red-raw and he’s made ample use of every swear word he’s ever known so he takes a step back and glares at the house, hands on hips. He contemplates texting Harry – _Sorry but your mate’s an arsehole and I can’t get your biscuit tin back. Find someone else to do it_ – but here’s the thing.

Everything is so fucking fucked about his life right now – he hates his job, he’s drinking himself to death, he’s pushing away his friends even though he knows he needs them now more than ever and he feels old and useless and irrelevant and alone. And he can’t see how to fix any of that: it’s just too hard.

But this, this is actually fixable. He just needs to get into this house, retrieve a tin and get said tin back to Harry or hold onto it for safe-keeping until Harry returns to London. And if he could just do this one, simple thing then maybe he will find the strength to sort out whatever the hell else is going wrong with his life. If he could just get one thing right then maybe he will feel less like a loser.

He doesn’t want Drunk Nick to be right.

So, it’s symbolic, yeah? And the only thing standing in the way of Nick feeling the smallest iota of pride for the first time in ages is a humourless upstart with ridiculously fluffy hair and stupid tattoos. And Nick refuses – _refuses_ – to be beaten by a fucking punk Peter Pan.

Which is why Nick decides that the only reasonable thing to do now is break into Louis freaking Tomlinson’s house. Assuming that the lack of security extends to the back of the house, it should be a piece of piss.

“Right,” says Nick and then he does a few ghost punches to rile himself up. “You can do this. Drunk Nick is a prick and he’s wrong: you are _not_ a loser. You can do this.”

Nick steps through an unlocked gate (seriously, Louis, you’re kind of a big deal and will be an even bigger deal the second you release an album so sort your fucking security out before actual stalkers and not just a desperate radio DJs are trying to break in) and then hurries down the side of the house, ducking under the windows and humming the _Mission Impossible_ theme.

The back yard is small and surprisingly neat, just a strip of lawn, a hedge and some rose bushes. There’s a conservatory jutting off the back of the house that looks like the perfect place to snuggle with a book and read for hours if Nick was the kind of person who could sit still for more than a minute, which he’s not.

Of course, now that Nick’s made it this far he realises there is a flaw in his plan: he does not know how to pick a lock and, if he was going to learn by watching a YouTube video or something, then he probably should have done that before he snuck all the way back here.

Damn.

He decides to try the conservatory door anyway, just in case Louis is a complete and total knobhead. Which, as it turns out, he is because the conservatory door is unlocked and it opens without a fuss. Nick makes a mental note to shove an anonymous letter through the mail box before he leaves: _sort your security out, wanker_.

Inside is quiet and Nick realises he doesn’t know anything about Louis (which might have something to do with the serious lack of prep he did for the Interview from Hell) and therefore has no idea if he should expect to bump into a girlfriend or boyfriend or family members or staff or a ravenous dog and okay, so maybe Nick’s plan has more than one flaw.

With a fast-beating heart and sweat trickling down his back, Nick tiptoes through the conservatory and into the kitchen.

It’s fancy – all stainless-steel appliances and marble work-tops and pots and pans hanging on racks.

Another flaw in Nick’s plan is that he has no idea where the biscuit tin could be. Should he text Harry? No point, he’ll still be in the air. He’s just going to have to search the entire house.

Quietly, Nick looks through the kitchen, all the while keeping an ear out for Louis. When he comes up empty handed, he moves down the corridor and finds himself in a bathroom (no Santa-themed biscuit tins but one hell of an enticing spa-bath), then a bedroom (an unused guest bedroom judging by the alarming amount of beige – beige curtains, beige carpet, beige sheets, beige cushions, beige walls) and then a study with a messy desk, a Chesterfield, overflowing bookshelves, a life-sized Spider-man (what? Seriously?) and, thank fucking Christ, a biscuit tin covered in elves and reindeer and a rosy-cheeked, tartan-wearing Santa. _Finest shortbread assortment_ , the tin says and Nick fist pumps the air over and over until he’s sure his face is red and his quiff has wilted from the exertion. 

He tucks the tin under his arm – it’s surprisingly lightweight, actually – and tip toes out of the room. He just has to get the hell out of this house and he is officially not a loser, thank you very much, Drunk Nick. He’s positively giddy with pride and contemplating if there’s a way he can tell this story on the radio without getting arrested.

Nick is halfway down the corridor when he hears the tinkle of piano keys.

He immediately stills, holding his breath and not daring to move a muscle. The sound grows, the melody hard to pick at first until all the notes slip into a harmony that loops and swirls and wraps around Nick’s heart and compels him like a lasso toward an ajar door where he pauses, heart racing, and listens.

Even though Nick loves music – a proper music snob for sure – he doesn’t really know the language of it, doesn’t know any of the technical stuff, but he doesn’t need to. Nick has always judged a song on how it makes him _feel_ and this song makes him feel ... broken. His throat feels raw and thick, and it’s like standing on a desolate moor in the middle of winter, wind whipping your hair and clothes and skin as you scream the name of your lost love into the stratosphere.

It’s perfect and beautiful and heart-breaking and perfect.

And then ... oh, shit.

If Nick thought the piano melody was enough to blast his heart into pieces, well then when Louis starts to sing it launches his whole fucking soul into space.

Nick knew Louis had a beautiful voice – high and raw and husky and rippling with emotion – but combine that with heart-breaking lyrics and the sweetest melody on Earth and it’s a recipe for total musical perfection. Nick strains to catch every word but Louis is singing too softly and the half-closed door is muffling the sound. For a crazy moment he imagines himself bursting through the door and throwing himself at Louis’ feet, begging him to keep playing forever. But then he remembers he’s in the middle of a burglary and Louis hates him anyway.

But he listens for as long as Louis plays and when the last note rings out, his cheeks are damp and his heart is sore but he feels somehow lighter, somehow better. Caught up in his feelings he doesn’t hear the sound of the piano stool shifting and the muted footsteps as Louis makes his way toward the door and ... holy shitballs! Nick stumbles back, thankful that the carpet is thick enough to muffle his movements. He looks about frantically before diving into the room behind him, ducking down behind a wardrobe. He’s got just enough sense to notice that he’s in the drab, lifeless guest room he stuck his head in earlier but then he hears the music room door creak open and he holds his breath and scrunches his eyes tightly shut.

If Nick can’t see Louis, he won’t be able to see him, right? Right???

Nick slides down the wall and hugs the biscuit tin to his chest. He can picture the headlines already: ‘A Grim Time for Grimmy: How the Radio One DJ went from good time to jail time’ and there’ll be another article right next to it, a photo of a pissed-off looking Louis under a headline: ‘My brush with out-of-control Grimshaw’ and fuck, Nick really didn’t think this through, did he?

Still holding his breath and with his eyes tightly shut, he waits and waits but Louis doesn’t come. After a while. curiosity gets the better of him so he crawls back to the door and peeps through and oh crap. The music room door is wide open now and Louis is sitting on the floor, facing into the corridor, shifting through mounds of paper, a pencil behind his ear, a frown on his face and a freshly brewed cup of tea at his feet. And even though he looks completely absorbed, muttering to himself and scribbling out words and adding new ones, Nick would bet anything that if he were to open the door and step out, Louis would notice. And then he would call the police. And then it would all be over for Nick.

He takes a deep breath and crawls back over to the wardrobe, settling with his back to the wall because apparently, he’s stuck here for a while, until Louis shifts location or until Nick comes up with a plan that doesn’t involve him breaking his neck trying to climb out the incredibly tiny bedroom window.

He frowns at the biscuit tin and wonders if he can reasonably place all the blame for his current predicament on Harry and his pout. He’s certain he can. He just dreads the note Drunk Nick will leave him about this tomorrow. Assuming he makes it out before then.

Nick lets his head roll back until it knocks against the wall behind him and, not for the first time in his life, curses the day he was born.

 

*  *  *

 

Nick’s done a lot of stupid things in his life, but falling asleep mid-burglary is pretty high up the list.

It wasn’t his fault. Louis wouldn’t take a break, not even to piss, and Nick was so fucking sleepy, all right, and the craziness of the last few days (or months, really) was catching up with him fast, so he couldn’t help but crawl over to the bed, curl up on top of the covers and ‘just rest his eyes for a cheeky minute.’

Of course, next thing Nick knows it’s hours later and he’s opening his eyes, all groggy and disorientated, to find he’s cuddling Harry’s ye olde biscuit tin like a teddy bear and there’s a surprisingly calm Louis Tomlinson sitting on the bed with him.

Shit.

Nick thought he’d sunk as low as he could but it turns out there’s much, _much_ lower places to sink, even after you’ve vommed on a popstar live on Radio One.

“Uh,” says Nick, blinking rapidly in the hope that this is some kind of mirage from a lack of sleep and if he blinks enough it will just go away. “This, uh, this isn’t what it looks like,” he says when the Louis-mirage stubbornly refuses to vanish.

Louis is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, shovelling cereal from a bowl into his mouth. He chews loudly, swallows then cocks an eyebrow. “What, you mean you didn’t break into my house to spoon with a biscuit tin in my spare room?”

Nick looks down at Harry’s tin and then back up at a still surprisingly calm Louis. He wonders if the cops are already on their way or if he has time to talk Louis out of pressing charges. “I mean, yes,” he says, “it’s a little bit what it looks like but–”

Louis shrugs. “Honestly? I’m not even that bothered. Not sure why. Maybe I’m a bit impressed you were able to break into my house, even in your sorry state.”

Nick sits up awkwardly, running his fingers through his sleep-tussled hair, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Fuck off, Tomlinson,” he mutters, “ _Technically_ I didn’t even have to break in because your fucking door was open so even in my ‘sorry state’ it was way too easy.”

“So, we’re both in agreement that you’re a piss poor excuse for a burglar?”

“Fuck you.”

“Tell you what,” says Louis, shovelling more cereal into his mouth. “I don’t press charges against you for breaking in to my house and you let me take the piss out of you for breaking into my house, yeah?”

And, well, yeah. That is a pretty good deal actually. 

For a long couple of minutes, Nick and Louis just watch each other, neither moving nor saying a word. Nick knows he should just up and run before Louis changes his mind about pressing charges but he can’t. If he’s honest – which is a rare occurrence these days – he thinks he’d quite fancy sitting here forever, just watching Louis eat his cereal and listening to his angelic voice take the piss out of Nick. Maybe that’s what he’ll tell the boss: ‘I’ve decided I won’t be staying on at Radio One. Instead, I’ve taken up the position of Louis Tomlinson’s verbal punching bag. The pay’s shit but the view is second to none.’

Nick rubs his face with both hands. He’s got the beginnings of a real bitch of a headache building at his temples. “How did you even find me?” he says, breaking the weird silence.

Louis snorts. “What, because you were like a fucking ninja chameleon, all splayed out in my spare bedroom, with the door half open right across for where I was working?”

“Shut up.”

“Actually, it’s cos you snore, mate.”

“Do not.”

“Like a fucking freight train.”

“Oi.”

“You’re just lucky my manager left ages ago. Don’t think he’d be as understanding about this as me.” Louis shrugs again before going back to his cereal.

Another weird silence descends upon them and Nick keeps sneaking glances at Louis. He’s still got those dark shadows under his eyes and hollow cheeks and the golden hue of his tan has mostly faded, but he radiates so much energy and light and goodness. Some people have it – the X Factor – and Louis’ got it in spades. You can tell just by looking at him – just by feeling the buzz of energy around him – that he’s something special, something unique. Nick remembers reading that humans are made of the same stuff as stars and he thinks, looking at Louis, that some stars are born to shine brighter than others and some, like Nick, were dead ages ago only the light just hasn’t caught up yet.

Louis rocks to the side, dumping his empty cereal bowl on the bedside table. He leans back on his hands and runs his eyes up and down Nick, not checking him out or anything, just a gentle, curious once over. It still makes Nick’s skin tingle for reasons best left unexplored.

“Should I ask what you’re doing here?” says Louis. “Cos I’m not really up with proper etiquette and all that posh shite but I’m pretty sure you don’t follow up an apology with a break in. Maybe like a card or a bunch of flowers or something. Actually, you’re not, like, a stalker or anything, are you?” For the first time Louis looks genuinely worried, like he’s only just realised Nick might not be all that harmless after all.

And, well.

 _That_ wakes Nick up from whatever weird trance he’s been in. He needs to leave, he needs to not be here in the first place. Shit.

“Not a stalker, no,” says Nick, quickly standing, “just ... just a bit in the middle of a mental breakdown, I think. Just a small one. Nothing to worry about. I didn’t jizz in your bed or anything like that.”

Louis’ eyes grow wide and Nick slaps himself internally.

“Of course, now that I’ve said that it sounds like that’s exactly what I did, doesn’t it?”

“Just a bit,” says Louis and he can’t seem to help the way his eyes flick to the sheets where Nick had just been laying.

Oh God.

Nick would very much like to disappear, please and thank you. “Promise I didn’t.”  He crosses his heart.

“All right,” says Louis in a way that makes it clear that every sheet in this house will be going through an industrial-strength wash the second Nick leaves.

“I should go,” Nick says and Louis nods.

“Probably for the best,” says Louis.

“Right.” Nick stands there for a moment longer, eyes on his feet, heart in his throat. He was supposed to feel _less_ like a loser after this but ... well. “Right. See you around. I mean, if I see you I’ll run away so you don’t have to look at me again because it will be awkward, won’t it?”

Louis’ eyes flick again to the sheets. “Might be a bit awkward,” he says.

Nick swallows hard. “Excellent.” He salutes Louis and then turns and hurries away. He stutters to a halt by the door. “Should I leave the way I came or ...”

A ghost of a smile flutters across Louis’ lips. “Front door’s a bit more civilised. Plus, it’s open.”

“Course it is,” mutters Nick and then he’s hurrying out the bedroom and through the house and out the front door and down the driveway and onto the street and into the underground and he does _not_ stop, does _not_ look back, until he’s locking himself in his own flat and slumping against the door.

“Fuck.” He slides down and into a heap on the floor, breathing hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Just when you reach rock bottom, you find a way to blast through the rock so you can sink lower, you epic fucking loser.” He cradles his head in his hands, ignoring Pig as she comes to investigate what’s happening. 

Still, it’s not like he ever has to see Louis again. If the guy ever returns to Radio One, Greg will be given the interview for sure. Plus, the chances of Nick being booted out of the Beebs by Friday are pretty high anyway. And then he’ll be an industry pariah so there’s no chance they’ll bump into each other at awards shows or anything like that. And if they _do_ happen to cross paths then Nick meant what he said: he’ll run a mile the other way. It will be a cold day in hell before Nick let’s himself come face-to-face with Louis Tomlinson again.

Nick sighs before picking himself off the floor. He needs to eat something and he’s been busting for a piss ever since he woke up. If he can just pretend to be a normal, functioning adult for the rest of the evening, maybe he’ll get by. He’ll stay in for the night, for once. Self-care and all that. He’ll add this afternoon’s events to his long list of things he needs to drink to forget.

It’s not until he’s had a bit of a cry, drunk enough red wine to take the edge off and watched four hours of Bake-Off reruns while scoffing half a stale chocolate eclair and a whole Marks and Sparks frozen Hawaiian pizza that he’s hit with a crippling realisation. He jolts upright in his chair, knocking over his glass of red wine, the blood draining from his face.

In his haste to get out of Louis’ house, he left Harry’s biscuit tin behind.

Fuck.

Which means he has to go back.

Fuck.

And face Louis.

_Fuck._

And ...

Fuckity fucking _fuck_.

Why is Nick’s life like this?

 

*  *  *

 

Louis has been working on _Here Without You_ for twelve hours straight. Technically it’s been two years, if he counts from when he first sat at the piano and started playing the same handful of notes over and over until a melody broke out, a melody that was instantly begging for lyrics of rage and grief and loss. But he’s never been happy with it, never able to stop tinkering with it, trying to get it right, trying to make it perfect.

After working on it all night he’s convinced it’s a weak middle eight that’s holding the song back – it’s supposed to be the moment the song shifts gears and soars into an unexpected crescendo but it’s just ... _ugh_. It’s shit, is what it is.

He lets his head fall, rubbing his tired fingers all over his face, trying to massage out the tension that’s been building all night. He should take a break – eat or fall asleep in front of the telly for a few hours. Go for a walk maybe. Ring his sisters. Build a time machine and go back to yesterday when Nick had been there and Louis had felt ... calm.

It was the strangest thing. Coming out of his songwriting trance to the sound of someone snoring nearby. At first, he figured Zayn must have snuck back in when he’d been too wrapped up his music to notice, so he’d crept into the spare room hoping for a bit of a snuggle and a cry into his best friend’s shoulder.

Only it wasn’t Zayn on the bed, it was Nick bloody Grimshaw, spooning that weird old biscuit tin the Styles kid had left behind a few days ago. His mouth was sleep slack and he was drooling all over the pillow but instead of a normal reaction – like fear or anger or confusion – Louis had felt ... calm. Of all the emotions to feel upon discovering an almost-stranger in his spare bed, Louis had to go and feel _calm_.

Fucking hell.

He’d shaken his head roughly, trying to dislodge the strange, unwanted reaction but nothing changed. So, he’d gone and fixed himself a bowl of Coco Pops, given himself a stern talking to before wandering back into the room with big plans to have a total meltdown about it all. But it was as if the chaos in his brain – the constant static of criticism and anxiety and worry – had been switched off and suddenly it was like a fucking yoga retreat in there instead.

So, he’d sat on the bed, careful not to disturb Nick, and watched him with curiosity. Even the spluttering, honking snores erupting from Nick’s wide-open mouth were calming. Some people listened to whale noises to relax their mind, turns out all Louis needed was Nick Grimshaw snoring unexpectedly in his spare bedroom.

Nick had woken up not long after Louis had settled on the bed, the prettiest blush colouring his cheeks and his mop of unruly waves and curls sticking up everywhere. They’d talked for a bit; Louis had really enjoyed talking to someone who didn’t seem to want anything from him – wasn’t asking questions Louis didn’t like answering, wasn’t judging him. It was a weird conversation, that was for sure, but with every word they uttered to each other it had felt like another weight was being lifted from Louis’ shoulders.

Maybe it was just the simple fact that he had something else to focus on other than music for the first time in what felt like forever.

He never had got a straight answer as to why the DJ had broken into his home and fallen asleep on his spare bed, though. It didn’t worry him – he’d liked making Nick blush, needling him until he got all flustered and pink and biting his lips.

Turns out that when Nick Grimshaw isn’t throwing up on him, he’s an alright guy. A big fucking weirdo, obviously, but alright nevertheless. 

The whole exchange had set Louis’ skin buzzing and his mind racing – the good kind of racing, the kind that twists his thoughts into rhymes and metaphors and melodies and songs. So, when Nick had left, Louis had taken out his guitar and a fun, bouncy rock anthem – _No Control_ – had just poured from him. His synapses were firing and he was in the zone but in a different way than usual. It didn’t feel like being pulled down and locked in a trance than he would wake from, hours later, blinking and confused and so, so tired. No, it was more like it was a powerful spell he’d cast and he was in control the whole time and when the song was done he felt alive, he felt like he could take on the world and _win_. So, he’d picked up _Here Without You_ , hoping the buzz would carry through and he’d be able to finally finish the song closest to his heart. And at first it felt like he was still flying, still in control, still fucking winning. But then everything had gone to shit and he’d gotten bogged down in the middle eight and twelve hours had passed him by and now it was mid-morning and he was tired and anxious and frustrated.

“Do I dare ask if you slept at all last night?” says Zayn from the doorway.

Louis jumps; he didn’t know he had an audience. He really does need to start locking his doors – he just forgets, is all. He clears his throat; it’s been ages since he’s spoken and his voice is croaky. “I slept all yesterday afternoon,” he lies. He shuffles the music sheets to keep his hands busy, throwing a weak smile over his shoulder at Zayn.

Zayn walks in smelling of cigarette smoke and aftershave. “Niall been by?”

Louis shakes his head. He’s not sure why but he doesn’t plan on telling Zayn about Nick’s unexpected visit. He wants to keep that to himself. “He was busy. We’ve got something planned tomorrow night. Maybe. Hard to get a straight answer from the guy.”

“What’s this?” Zayn is holding up the lyrics to _No Control_. As he reads, a slow smile curls his lips upwards. “This is ... kind of sexy, Lou. How’s it sound?”

Louis’ phone vibrates from where it’s sitting on top of the piano. It’s been doing that all morning so Louis knows it’s probably just Fizzy again. Or Lottie. Both have been on his case about heading back to Doncaster for a long weekend, something to bring the whole family together. He checks and, yeah, it’s Fiz. _Come on, Lou_ , says the text. _You can’t hide from us forever, you know. Answer your damn phone, arsehole!_

Louis pockets his phone without responding.

“Here,” he says and plays back the sample he recorded last night, a stripped back version of what he envisions the song will end up like. He’s thinking pop punk: heavy drums and jangling guitars and an anthemic chorus, something the whole club will bounce and sing along to.

Zayn nods as he listens, grinning. “This is brilliant, Lou. Where the hell did this come from?”

“I don’t always write mournful ballads, you know.” He kicks Zayn in the shin and smiles, tiredly.

“Only about ninety-nine percent of the time,” says Zayn, kicking him back.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I just thought the album could do with a bop. Something to get people bouncing, you know?”

As the playback comes to an end, Zayn fishes out his phone and starts texting. “Brilliant, Lou. The label’s going to be well happy. “

 Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes again. His mum used to tell him the wind would change and his face would stay that way whenever he’d do it as a kid. Of course, that just made Louis try to make the ugliest, craziest face he could, shouting, “Come on then, wind! Change! Dare you!” just to make his mum laugh and join in by pulling her own crazy faces.

Louis swallows over the lump in his throat and turns back to the piano, picking out the melody for _Here Without You_ in the hopes that inspiration strikes him. The truth is _No Control_ really is pretty awesome but he’s fucked if he knows whether it should be on the album or not. He’s got hundreds of songs written and he doesn’t know if any of them are good enough. He just can’t shake this feeling that _Here Without You_ is the heart of the album, the song the whole album builds around. And until he gets that song right, he’s not going to know which other songs work or not.

Louis hears the rustle of Zayn shoving his phone into his pocket and then senses his best friend watching him.

“Problem?” Louis asks without looking up.

Zayn shoves Louis along the stool so he can take a seat beside him. He can’t sit still, though, so Louis knows he’s not going to like whatever Zayn’s trying to work up the courage to say.

“You know I don’t want to pressure you, Lou,” he says finally and Louis can’t help but flinch at what he knows is coming. “But the label’s asking when the record will be ready. They don’t like it when I tell them you’ve got ten albums’ worth but aren’t happy with any of it.”

Louis snorts. “Easy fix. Don’t tell them anything.” He wishes he’d never signed with a major label; he should have stayed independent so he could do things his way and only his way. He’s thankful Zayn is dealing with the label on his behalf but he’s not going rush this album. It _has_ to be perfect.

Zayn runs his hand through his dyed-lilac hair, shaking his head. “Yeah, except it’s not that easy when they’re asking every fucking day, Lou. You don’t know what I’m dealing with here. It’s–”

“They can ask all they want,” snaps Louis, “but it’s not going to make the songs good enough all of a sudden.” He slaps his hands down hard on the keyboard, aiming to make the most annoying sound ever. He’s pretty damn successful. “I know they just want to churn out any old shit – ride the success of the EP and trick the fans into buying the album before they have a chance to find out if it’s any good. But I’m thinking about my long-term career.” He bashes the keyboard again, louder this time.

Zayn winces at the sound. But he’s a pro at dealing with all of Louis’ moods so he just reaches out and grips both of Louis’ wrists to stop him from hitting the keyboard again. “The songs are already good enough, Lou.” He’s using that talking-to-a-child-in-the-middle-of-a-tantrum voice again. Louis would like to slap him.

“Well, good enough is shit,” Louis says. “I don’t want good enough. I want perfect.”

“I’m not sure there’s such a thing as perfect, objectively speaking,” says Zayn.

Louis scoffs. “Objectively speaking?”

Zayn shrugs. “You love Big Macs and I think they’re the food of the devil. People like different things, don’t they? I like going to art galleries and you say you’d rather stab your own eyes out with rusted forks than stare at some paint splatter for hours on end. Doesn’t make art good or bad, just cos I like it or you don’t. Art still exists whether people love it or not.”

“And Big Macs.”

“Huh?”

“Big Macs still exist no matter whether people love ‘em or not. Except for pickles. They can fuck right off.”

 Zayn lets go of Louis’s wrists, wrapping an arm around his shoulder instead. “I’ll always eat your pickles, Lou. Always.”

Louis lets himself sink into Zayn’s side; he can’t take his eyes off the mess of music sheets littering the piano top though. He doesn’t want to fight with Zayn – he’s not trying to be difficult or make things hard for his friend. But he wants more than one, flash-in-the-pan album – he wants a long career, he wants respect more than he wants hit singles. And to do that he needs to put out an album he can really stand behind. Something that has staying power. Something that means something to people, objectively or otherwise.

Zayn kisses the top of his head and sighs. “I love you, babe, but you just have to write songs that make you happy and quit worrying about what anyone else thinks because that’s out of your control. So, pick your ten favourite songs and get the label off my back, all right?” He chuckles. “The sooner you get this album out, the quicker we can get back to our Fifa marathons and you can start being the kid-at-heart we all know you are. Go out, get pissed, kiss a bunch of frogs until you find your prince. Just have fun for once. You remember that, don’t you? Fun? I don’t think you’ve gone out for a night on the town since uni days. We used to get well sloshed, didn’t we? Used to get up to all sorts.” 

Louis looks up and Zayn’s waggling his eyebrows and smiling at him, smiling like it’s really as simple as whacking any ten songs on an album and hey presto the world is sunshine and Care Bears and unicorns. But the idea leaves a bitter taste in Louis’ mouth, a taste he can’t make go away.

He pulls away from Zayn. “I have work to do,” he says and stands.

He hears Zayn mutter a curse behind him. “You should at least take a break. Get some sleep,” he says but Louis has got his back to him and he’s picking up his guitar already. “Louis,” says Zayn, his tone low with warning.

Louis laughs but there’s no humour in the sound. “You want me to get the label off your back, Zayn? Then let me write my album.” He sits on an amp and starts strumming, hoping to drown out the roar of static in his head.

“Louis ...”

Louis shakes his head; he doesn’t stop strumming. “Honestly, Zayn, it’s fine.” He tries to smile, he tries to keep his voice light, anything to get Zayn to stop pestering him, to end this conversation that just makes him want to claw his own skin off. “I’m just tired and cranky but the second I sort out _Here Without You_ the whole album’s going to fall into place, you know it will. And I’m _really_ close. It’s just the middle eight that needs fixing. I’m only a few days from getting it right, I know I am. So just leave it for now. Please? Please, Zayn?” He chances a look at Zayn, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as manic, as desperate, to Zayn’s ears as it does to his own.

Zayn chews on his lip, eyes trained on Louis’ fingers, gentling picking out a melody on the guitar. His chest rises and falls with a sigh before he stands. He fixes a smile on his face and nods. “Okay, Lou,” he says. “Okay.”

Louis nods too. “Just a couple more hours and then I’ll sleep for a bit. Promise.” He looks down at his own fingers; they’re shaking but the melody still sounds all right. He hopes.

He doesn’t look up again and doesn’t notice when Zayn leaves the room. He’s already zoned out; he’s too far down the rabbit hole to notice anything that isn’t _music, music, music_ and _perfect, perfect, perfect_. 

 

*  *  *

 

As Nick knocks on Louis’ front door with a trembling hand he’s not sure what he regrets more: leaving behind Harry’s stupid ye olde biscuit tin therefore necessitating a return visit or deciding to go out last night so he could drink enough to forget the fact that he’d left behind Harry’s stupid ye olde biscuit tin therefore necessitating a return visit.

He’d ended up in some posh bar in Chelsea, hooking up with an _X Factor_ reject in the loos and then vommed down the front of his own shirt before braving the parade of paps out front. Drunk Nick had left him another note: _You suck_. Simple but effective. And accurate. But even with another killer hangover this morning and his face plastered all over the tabloids, Nick fears his regrettable night out still won’t be as bad as the look on Louis’ face when he sees it’s Nick come back to be weird at him again. 

When no one answers, he knocks a few more times. He’s contemplating just opening the door and walking in – not like he hasn’t done it before – when an insanely attractive guy with dyed lavender hair answers.

“Oh,” says the guy, frowning as he looks Nick up and down. “Is this about the shoes?”

Nick sways on his feet but it’s because of the lack of sleep and the hangover. Not because this guy is clearly some ancient, glorious artwork come to life. Animated by some witch’s spell and escaped from a painting in the Louvre for sure. Nick remembers him hovering in the background of the Interview from Hell and thinks he’s Louis’ manager but can’t remember his name.  

“We weren’t going to make a big deal out it,” says the guy, clearly unaffected by Nick being _extremely_ effected. “‘Cept for storming out, I guess. But you don’t have to, like, worry. We’re not going to blab to the tabloids about your ‘flu’.” 

Nick shakes his head. “No, I, uh. It’s ...” He shakes his head again, roughly this time. For fuck’s sake, he makes a living out of talking. He should be able to string a simple sentence together. “I left something here,” he says. “Well, not me, not originally me, I mean. Harry did. And I was supposed to pick it up except I left it behind because I was, well, I was in a bit of a state, really, and I promise I just need to pick it up and I’ll leave Louis alone. Swear it. Scout’s honour and all that.”

The guy frowns deeper – it’s clear that when he looks at Nick he does _not_ see a masterwork of art come to life. “I didn’t understand a word you just said, bro, but I’m not sure I care.” He hitches a backpack over his shoulder and presses past Nick and onto the driveway. “Do whatever you need to,” he calls over his shoulder. “And if you manage to get Lou to eat or sleep then you’re a better man than me.” He hops into a small black car and Nick is left, bewildered, on the doorstep.

“That’s Zayn,” says a voice behind Nick. He jerks around in shock even though he knows it’s Louis because he’d recognise that voice anywhere. And he’s right of course. Louis is leaning in the doorway, watching his manager drive away with a sad, barely-there smile on his lips. Nick isn’t sure if he should say something – he’s worried he’s intruded on a delicate moment between Louis and Zayn.

Well after the dust settles Louis is still watching the now-empty space where Zayn’s car had been. His expression is unfocused and sad and tired and Nick wonders if he’s forgotten that he’s not alone. Nick shifts his weight from foot to foot, as the awkward silence stretches on.

He clears his throat. “Um,” he says and Louis slowly turns his gaze to settle on Nick. There’s a questioning tilt of his brow but he doesn’t say anything. “Hello again, Louis Tomlinson,” says Nick. He waves.

Louis rolls his eyes but there’s still a smile twitching at the corner of his lips so Nick counts that as a win. “Hello, Nicholas Grimshaw. Nice of you to use the front door this time.”

“To be fair,” says Nick, “I made a very admirable attempt to use the front door last time but you were in a bit of a strop.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “I was never in a strop.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“No. You either say I wasn’t in a strop or I slam the door in your face.”

“Or I say you _were_ in a strop, you slam the door in my face and then I break in through the conservatory anyway.”

Louis smirks. “Just don’t be jizzing in my sheets again.”

Nick flushes. “I swear I didn’t.”

Louis’ eyes take a curious wander up and down Nick’s body. “You’re a weird one, Nicholas Grimshaw,” he says. But he sort of grins as he says it so Nick doesn’t think it’s a bad thing. “Very fucking weird.”

Nick isn’t sure what to say so he just makes some jazz hands and grins widely. “That’s me!” he says.

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re here for the biscuit tin, right?” he says. As gorgeous as he is, he looks seconds away from falling asleep on his feet. Nick wonders if he was up all night partying too. Or maybe the other kind of up all night, the kind that Nick used to enjoy before his options dried up and it was a quick blowie with a d-list reality-star in the loos or nothing. Louis is an up-and-coming music darling so he could easily walk into any club and have every girl and boy there salivating after him, desperate to be photographed hanging off his arm or to catch hold of even just a sprinkle of that superstar glow that radiates from every pore on Louis’ body. Except, now that Nick comes to think of it, he can’t remember ever having seen pictures of Drunk Louis stumbling out of nightclubs on the front pages of the rags. Maybe he just knows how to avoid the paps? Regardless, he’s young, beautiful, talented, and on his way to being very, _very_ successful – there’s no way this kid sleeps alone. What about that mystery brunette?

“Earth to Nicholas?” says Louis, waving his hand in front of Nick’s face.

“What? I mean, hello! Yes?”

“I asked if you were here for the tin? You left it behind last time.”

Nick nods. “Harry’s tin. Now, if you’re after weird then Harry is your boy.” 

Louis shrugs. “Pretty sure he didn’t jizz in my sheets so he can’t be too bad,” he mutters and then disappears into the house. He leaves the door wide open so Nick assumes he’s supposed to follow. He hurries up the front steps and shuts the door behind him, locking it in the hopes that Louis learns by his example. God, his face is burning up with embarrassment; he wonders if that’s how Louis thinks of him. Like if someone was to bring up Nick like, ‘do you know Nick Grimshaw?’ Louis would be like, ‘Oh, you mean the guy who breaks into your house and masturbates all over your linen? Yeah, I know him.’

Louis is headed down the corridor, presumably toward the spare bedroom. Nick jogs to catch up and finds Louis leaning with his back against the wall, the door to the spare room open and a tiny frown between his brows as he watches Nick approach.

“Left it in there,” he says and he keeps his gaze set on Nick, his eyes searching Nick’s face like he’s trying to work something out, like Nick fell asleep at a party and instead of having a cock and balls drawn on his face, someone drew a bunch of super hard quadratic equations and Louis is shit at maths.

“Tickity-boo,” says Nick, a phrase he’s never once used before in his entire life, and Louis’ frown deepens. God, when will Nick stop making a fool out of himself in front of Louis freaking Tomlinson? He hovers in the open door. “Soooooo ... guess I’ll just grab Harry’s tin and then be on my way, shall I? Don’t want to put you out any more than I already have, obviously. I mean, I did already promise that I would do my best to never see you again or, like, run the other way if I did because of how awkward it would be – and look how right I was about that, hey? Awkward as fuck, am I right?”

 Louis chews on his lips and looks away but Nick spies the grin that he’s trying to hide. “I can’t believe you get paid to talk for a living when you’re this fucking weird.”

Nick plasters on a smile but it feels like an iron claw is gripping his heart and squeezing. “Well, not for much longer probably,” he says, voice falsely bright. 

Louis whips his head back to face Nick, tilting his head and frowning, but Nick looks away quickly. He can’t bear to see the pity that is sure to take over Louis’ face when he works out that what Nick means is that he’s probably-almost-definitely going to be fired any second now. Nick turns and hurries into the beige monstrosity that is Louis’ spare room. He clears his throat loudly, the sound echoing in the awkward silence. He makes sure to keep his back to Louis; he senses the singer has followed him into the room, hears the springs squeak as Louis takes a seat on edge of the bed, but Nick can’t look at him. He _can’t_.

“Not to worry,” he says and he feels the upsurge of word-vomit coming on, a tidal wave he could never hope to fight off because Nick’s been keeping a lot of nasty thoughts trapped in his head of late, when he’s usually the kind of person who overshares every tiny detail of his life. But everything has a tipping point, doesn’t it. And Nick might just have found his. “Plenty of fish in the sea,” says Nick, hands on hips and where the fuck is Harry’s stupid fucking tin? “Isn’t that what they say? Plenty of fish in the sea? What do you say if you’re vegetarian though? I mean, I’m not vegetarian and I wouldn’t think you were, no offence. Is that offensive? But what do you say if you’re vegetarian: plenty more tofu in the sea? Can tofu swim? Anyway, do they even say that about jobs though, the plenty of fish thing? Or is it just relationships?” Nick runs his hands over his face. God he’s so tired. “I guess a job _is_ a kind of relationship, isn’t it? You’re all excited at first because it’s new and you’ve got high hopes and then you’re all loved up ‘cos it’s the honeymoon period and you can’t stop gushing about it but then the hard work settles in and it’s not so fun anymore and eventually you get sick of it – same old shit just a different day – and before you know it you’re asking for a divorce. Or, in my case, it’s the BBC who’s asking for the divorce. Or they might be.” Where the fuck is the fucking biscuit tin? He left it on the bed and it’s not there and it’s not on the bedside table. It’s a Christmas-themed biscuit tin in the beigest room to ever exist so it should stand out like Rudolph’s nose in a fucking snowstorm, right? “Of course, the big boss said it was up to me,” he says, lifting up the decorative pillows swamping the bed but no tin. “They gave me a week to sort my shit out – said it was flu but we all know that’s a load of bollocks – but I think I fucked it up anyway by going out when they said I shouldn’t and I don’t even know if I want to keep doing it, you know? And I don’t even know why I kept going out – I don’t even like it. I hate it. I hate this version of me but I can’t seem to find my way back to the version I liked because I’m not sure if I actually liked any of the other versions or I’m just looking at it through rose-tinted glasses. They say that, don’t they? Rose-tinted glasses. The past is another country. The grass is always greener. All these fucking sayings that people say. People just like talking shit, don’t they? Everybody’s always talking but hardly anyone has anything worth saying and where in the fucking fuck is the fucking biscuit tin? Seriously. I mean –”

 A quiet snore stops Nick mid-rant. He whips his head around to see Louis curled up on his side on top of the covers, fast asleep.

So, Nick finally poured out all the feelings he’s been bottling up for months and the guy fell asleep.

Nick stares for a full minute before laughter suddenly bursts from his mouth, more urgent, more wild, more untameable than any word vomit. He doesn’t know why he’s laughing but he can’t seem to stop. At the sound, Louis stirs, his brow furrows with the most adorable, irritated little frown and then he huffs, curling his fists under his chin, snuggling deeper into the warmth of the bed. Nick covers his mouth to stem the noise. Is this hysterics? Why is he laughing? Why can’t he stop?

There are tears staining his cheeks by the time he finally stops. He wipes them clear and, before he knows what he’s doing and can question it, he grabs a beige throw blanket hanging over the back of the beige chair in the corner of the room and gently lays it over Louis. For a moment he watches the fluttering of Louis’ lashes as he dreams; what is he dreaming about? Nick hopes it’s something nice but he’s not sure; the crease between Louis’ brows has grown deeper and Nick wants to smooth it out with his thumb, just smooth away Louis’ worries – whatever they might be – and let him dream about good things and good things only.

Nick jerks back because what the fuck was that? He makes a pact with himself to _never_ analyse why he just had such an intimate thought about a practical stranger. Instead, he tip-toes out of the room and when he’s in the corridor he stands with his hands on hips, trying to decide what to do now. He couldn’t see the tin in that room – so where is it? He can either wake Louis and ask him so he can get the hell out, he can look through the house while Louis is asleep and feel like a total creep or he can wait until Louis wakes up from what is clearly a much-needed sleep and ask him where the tin is then. And then he can get the hell out and leave the poor guy alone. Go back to his run-away-if-we-ever-see-each-other-again plan.

Well, Option A is clearly out of the question because there’s no way he’s going to wake Louis. The guy looks like he needs to sleep for a hundred years and Nick knows the feeling. He’s done Option B before and it was a total disaster last time – he’s not sure he can bring himself to snoop around Louis’ house without his permission. Again.

So, it looks like Option C is the winner, which Nick is happy about mostly because he doesn’t want to go home. Home is lonely. Home is where he’ll end up getting drunk in front of the telly, clawing his own skin off trying to fight off the urge to go out, get drunk and rack up the regrets. Of course, Option C has its own drawbacks, like what the fuck is he supposed to do alone in Louis’s house for however many hours the guy sleeps for? The door to the music room is open and Nick can see it’s littered with used dishes – mostly tea cups – and he thinks why the hell not? So Nick picks up every dirty dish he can find and carries them to the kitchen. There’s also a stack of used dishes in the sink so he washes them up too and when he’s done, hours later, he’s cleaned every dish and wiped down every surface and he’s feeling like a domestic goddess.

He heads to the lounge room, somewhere he’s only hurried past both times now, and he straightens it up too. He bins the empty pizza boxes and stacks away the computer games littering the floor and wipes everything down. He thinks about vacuuming but he doesn’t know where the vacuum is stored and he doesn’t want to wake Louis up with the noise. Kind of defeats the purpose of hanging around to give Louis his much-needed rest, doesn’t it?

When there’s nothing more for him to clean and he’s talked himself out of seeing if he can find a load of laundry to put on (because that would be next-level creepy, Nick, he sternly tells himself) he sinks down into the couch in the lounge room and turns on the TV, muting the sound and flicking to a cooking channel.

The lounge is weirdly bland – there’s nothing in this whole house that reveals anything about Louis’ personality, unless his personality is beige. There are no photos, no artwork, no trinkets, no anything that makes a house a home. Nick wonders if this place is just rented, somewhere for Louis to base himself while he’s writing his album. The only room that Nick has seen that reveals anything about Louis is the music room and even then, the only thing it reveals is that Louis works hard. Fucking hard.

The space is overflowing with music sheets and recording equipment and every instrument known to humankind and it’s clear that’s where Louis spends most if not all of his time when he’s here. There is a game consul in front of Nick, under the large TV screen, but the games scattered on the floor had a thin veil of dust covering them before Nick had dusted them off and stacked them away. Basically, Nick has no idea who Louis Tomlinson is other than a hard worker and the fittest bloke he’s ever laid eyes on.

Nick scrunches down in the gloriously soft couch and watches Mary Berry bake a whole salmon on the telly. Even though he’s an average cook, he loves cooking shows. Maybe that’s what he can do next. Host a cooking show: _Grimmy’s Average Cooking Adventures_. Or maybe he’d just invite on better cooks and watch them go at it because he prefers watching to actually cooking. It’d be like _Gogglebox_ meets _Bake Off_ , with Nick sitting in his trackies watching people cook and shouting out funny comments and getting drunk. People would watch that, right?

One moment Nick is watching Mary dishing out baked salmon, contemplating his own cooking-show stardom, and the next he’s blinking awake to find himself snuggled into the corner of the couch and Louis Tomlinson is sat beside him, eating a bowl of pasta and watching football with the sound still muted.

“Is this how you make friends? You fall asleep in their houses?” Louis asks, stabbing the pasta with his fork and shoving it into his mouth. He doesn’t even look at Nick, just keeps his eyes on the telly.

The food smells amazing.

Nick rubs the sleep out of his eye – he’s not even embarrassed by this point. He figures he can’t really do anything worse in front of Louis. “Depends. Has it worked?”

Louis shrugs. “Well, I’ve not called the cops on you yet. So, I guess.”

Nick chuckles to himself. During sleep he’s managed to grab one of the cushions and he’s hugging it to his belly. He hugs it tighter. “Is that how you judge all your relationships? If you don’t call the cops it must be true friendship?”

“Sounds about right,” says Louis. “By the way, there’s more of this in the kitchen if you’re hungry. Nothing special, just pasta with sauce out of the bottle. And you should know that you drool in your sleep and I think it’s pretty fucking weird that I don’t know the first thing about you, really, and yet you’ve destroyed half my belongings with three different bodily fluids – drool, vomit and ... yeah. But whatever. There’s pasta if you want it. You can spill it on my rug.”

“I never actually –”

“The lady doth protest too much, Nicholas.”

Nick laughs. “Fuck you, Tomlinson.”

“Well, that’d be far more enjoyable use of your jizz than knocking a lonely one out in a stranger’s bed sheets but no thanks. I’m right as I am.” He grins at Nick. “Just eat some fucking pasta, mate.”

As weird as this whole situation is between him and Louis, Nick isn’t about to turn down food. He’s starved and can’t remember the last time he ate. So, he pushes off the couch, heads to the kitchen and helps himself to the pasta – he knows where the bowls and cutlery are from his cleaning adventures.

When he gets back, Louis has curled his socked feet under his thighs and has switched channels to some kind of action film with exploding cars and sexy, bearded men wrestling. The sound is on but it’s down low.

“It’s like snakes, isn’t it,” says Nick, taking a seat. He grabs the cushion he’d been spooning earlier and shoves it onto his lap, balancing the pasta bowl on top.

Louis turns to stare incredulously at him. “Snakes?”

Nick takes a bite of pasta and it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. Fuck Mary Berry and her baked salmon, he’d take Louis’ pasta with bottled sauce any day of the week. If Louis was ever a guest on Nick’s _Gogglebake_ show he’d be earning a very appreciative commentary from Nick right about now.

“Saw this documentary,” he says, unperturbed. “It was on Australian wildlife and there were these two snakes tangled around each other and they were either having sex or fighting to the death and you couldn’t tell the difference.” He motions to the two half-naked action men on the TV beating the shit out of each other in a very sexy way. “It’s like that. Do they want to kill each other or fuck? Who knows? Maybe both?”

Louis laughs, an unexpected, high-pitched giggle that leaves him gasping and laughing and choking all at once. Nick can’t help the massive grin that splits his face – he made Louis make that sound, Nick Grimshaw did _that_. It’s the proudest he’s been for ages.

“You’re so fucking weird,” says Louis, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I like it.”

Nick hopes the blush overtaking his chest and face and ears isn’t too obvious. “Just so long as I keep you from calling the cops on me I’ll consider myself a success,” he says.

Nick feels his blush grow deeper as Louis continues to stare at him. His smile is fading very slowly but there’s a sparkle in his eyes that never goes away. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you,” he says after a while.

Nick shakes his head, looking down at his pasta. “S’okay,” he says. “You looked like you could use the sleep to be honest. Glad I could help out.”

Louis reaches over and rests his hand on Nick’s thigh. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture, Nick knows, but it still does strange things to his belly. And that’s, well. The very last thing Nick needs right now is to develop a crush on Louis Tomlinson. There’s no way someone like Louis would ever return those kinds of feelings and Nick doesn’t need a bad case of unrequited love to add to his list of shitty problems. So, no. Nick will _not_ be crushing on Louis. It can’t happen.

“I mean it,” Louis says. “You seemed like you could do with a talk and I fell asleep on you. I’m sorry. But thanks for staying. And for cleaning up.”

All Nick can do is shrug. He can’t open his mouth because he’s pretty sure that will result in him crying his heart out on Louis’ shoulder and, well, Nick doesn’t need to ruin any more of Louis’ things with yet another bodily fluid. 

“You can talk now,” offers Louis. “If you wanted. I’m a pretty good listener. And besides, I know how hard it is to talk about stuff, about the stuff that really hurts you, you know? Your friends and family always want to make you talk about it and they act like you’re doing the wrong thing by bottling it up but the thing is, it’s harder to talk to the people you love most sometimes. I don’t know why that is. Maybe because they know you best so they’ll feel your pain the hardest and that makes it too real or something, that makes you feel it harder too. So sometimes talking to a stranger or someone you don’t really know is easier.” He shrugs. “That’s my theory anyway.”

Nick smiles. He’s itching to cover Loui’s hand with his own but he doesn’t. “It’s a good theory,” he says.

There’s silence for a bit – not really silence because there’s the scrape of cutlery as they eat their pasta and in the background buff men in white tank tops are still beating each other up or mating or whatever the hell it is they’re doing – but Louis is keeping quiet, waiting for Nick to talk and Nick is keeping quiet too, because he doesn’t know what to say.

But he’s tired. He’s _so_ tired. He’s tired of dealing with all this on his own – he knows that’s his fault and he could have talked to any of his friends about it a hundred times over but Louis is right. He didn’t know how to talk about it with people who know him better than he knows himself. But Nick knows he does need to talk about it and there’s something about Louis that makes it seem less frightening to open up. It scares Nick just how okay he is with laying himself bare for this almost-stranger but it feels too natural to deny.

“I’m embarrassed,” he says in the end because that’s what it all boils down to isn’t it? He keeps his focus on the almost-empty bowl of pasta in his lap because he doesn’t think he can do this if he’s looking at Louis. “I’m so fucking embarrassed. I had my dream job – it wasn’t easy and it came with all sorts of problems but I loved it anyway. And I don’t know what went wrong. People stopped listening to the show and the chorus of voices yelling about how shit I was became louder than those defending me so I got called into the boss’s office and told that it was time I gave it up. They were nice about it obviously. Said they’d be happy to put the story out that it was my decision. We’d frame it like I was looking for a new challenge but that wasn’t the case and everyone knew it. Everyone knows that I was demoted, that I wasn’t good enough anymore. Maybe I was never good enough.” Nick bites down hard on his lip because he can feel the tears pooling in his eyes and he doesn’t want them to fall. “Every day that I turn up to host Drive,” he says, his voice betraying him by cracking, “it feels like I’m admitting to how much of a failure I am. I’m supposed to front up with a smile on my face and do the job I was demoted to do while everyone knows – everyone fucking knows – that I failed. And I’m so embarrassed.”

Louis squeezes his thigh, a gentle reminder that he’s right there and Nick isn’t alone. “So, what’s with the going out and getting pissed thing?” he says. “I know I shouldn’t believe anything those arseholes print but you do seem to be out a lot. And the first time we met wasn’t exactly the best, was it?”

Nick laughs but the sound is bitter and resigned and full of unshed tears. “It was kind of the worst, actually. I’m pretty embarrassed about that too.”

There’s another squeeze and Louis leans in a little closer. “Don’t be,” he says, voice firm. “I’ve met a shit-tonne of radio DJs in my short time in this industry and I haven’t remembered a single one of their names but I was never going to forget yours, even if you hadn’t followed up our meeting by breaking into my house and falling asleep on my bed. The vomit thing alone was enough to capture my attention.”

Nick shoves him playfully. “Stop being a dick.”

Louis laughs. “Seriously. As far as making friends go, vomiting on my shoes is my favourite meet-cute ever. Friends for life, you and me, because of that.”

Nick feels all the fight leave him; he’s tired of it all and just wants to bury down deep and never come up again. So, he lets himself sink against Louis, tucking into his side and letting Louis wrap his arm around his shoulders. There’s no way they’re at the stage of friendship where they can cuddle on the couch and cry all over each other but there’s nothing ordinary about this thing between them and Nick has decided he’s not going to question it, isn’t going to listen to the voice in the back of his mind whispering, _it’s too late, Grimmy, you’re already crushing hard_. Nick’s always been a tactile person anyway. Plus, he likes how warm Louis feels and he likes how Louis burrows his head into Nick’s neck and he likes how he doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

“I just can’t seem to stop myself from making mistakes,” he says and it’s almost a whisper. “It’s like I’ve decided that if I’m going to be embarrassed in front of the whole country then I’m going to make it the biggest, messiest meltdown I can.”

“So, it’s just you showing off then, is it,” says Louis and Nick knows he’s joking but maybe he’s kind of right. 

“Maybe it’s a just a way for me to at least own my embarrassment, you know? Like, the fact was it wasn’t my decision to leave Breakfast – I was pushed and everyone knows it. Well, me making a fool out of myself in the papers is all my own doing. As fucked up as it is, at least I get to be in control. At least I’m feeling shit about something _I_ did and not things that were done to me.” He buries his face deep into Louis’ chest. “That’s kind of fucked up isn’t it,” he says.

He feels the vibrations of Louis’ soft laughter against his cheek.

“It’s massively fucked up,” says Louis, “but I’m one to talk. I lost my mum and my long-term boyfriend within a month of each other. My mum had cancer and my boyfriend was a heartless dick. The last thing I promised mum was that I was going to follow through on my dream. ‘I’ll write a whole album about how much I love you so you’ll live forever,’ I told her and it made her smile and that smile, fuck, it made the whole shitty situation hurt just the smallest fraction less. So that’s what I did. The day after I buried my mum I cut everything out of my life that wasn’t going to help me achieve that dream. I don’t go out, I don’t date, I don’t have friends, I don’t relax, I hardly eat and sleep and all I do is write and write and write and beat myself up over not being good enough. Because if I can write the album I promised her and if people listen to it and love it then maybe I won’t miss her as much. Maybe it will fill the giant fucking hole in my heart. That’s pretty fucked up too, right?”  

Nick can’t say anything because he really is crying now. His throat aches, his heart aches, his soul aches.

Louis squeezes him tighter. “Zayn says I need to make mistakes. He says I need to go out, drink fruity cocktails, kiss all the boys, dance, throw a strop in a Tescos, get papped with a suspicious white powder, drunk tweet the fans, make a total dick out of myself and be a regular, idiotic male in my mid-twenties with too much money, too much fame and too much time on my hands. There’s time enough for being a bore when I’m older, he says.”

Nick frowns at the wet patch on Louis’ t-shirt form his tears. Shit.

“I’m not sure that’s the best advice from your manager,” he says.

Louis laughs. “I think that’s Zayn my best friend talking and not Zayn my manager.” He rubs his hand softly up and down Nick’s bicep. “And I think he’s half right, only don’t tell him I said that. I need a bit more balance, I guess. Only I don’t know how to do it. I just get caught up in writing the music and I lose perspective.”

Nick sighs. “So basically, I need to learn to stay in more and be a fucking grown up for once, and you need to go out more and make a dick of yourself every once in a while.”

“And we both need to be less harsh on ourselves,” says Louis and he’s picking up the empty bowl from Nick’s lap and placing it with his own on the coffee table.

Nick watches him, the fluidity in his movements, the delicate way he holds himself and the strength too. Everything about this situation is unexpected – going from a break-in and contempt for each other to cuddling on the couch and spilling their every anxious thought – but, at the same time, it makes absolute sense to Nick why he’d open up to Louis of all people, why he’d go from zero to a hundred-miles-per-hour in how he feels about him.

Because Louis is just that special. He’s warm and open and creative and generous and considered and intelligent. He’s one of those people that everyone wants to be their best friend. You want to be near them, every chance you get, you want to witness their smiles up close, you want to be the one making them smile. You want to make them proud of you and you want to be weak for them in a way that you can only be if there is absolute trust.

And, God, there goes all hope Nick had of pretending he wasn’t going to develop a full-blown crush on Louis. That ship has well and truly sailed.

Nick wipes his eyes and his nose. “Easier said than done though, isn’t it? Not being harsh on ourselves, I mean.”  

Louis pulls the blanket from around the back of the couch and rests it over their legs. “Yeah,” he says with a sigh. Under the blanket his hand finds Nick’s and he links their fingers together, squeezing. He keeps his eyes trained on the telly. “Yeah, it is. Now shut up and watch the film. We still have to work out if these superheroes want to fight or have sex. I vote sex.” 

With a smile, Nick scrunches down into the soft fabric of the couch, his shoulder resting gently against Louis’, their hands linked under the blanket.

Nick thinks he quite likes this, whatever the hell it is they’re doing. Friendship, probably. A one-sided crush, more than definitely. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, Nick thinks he’d like to do it every night. He’d like that very much. It wouldn’t be so hard to stay in if he had this waiting for him.

And if there’s a spark of hope in his chest that one day Louis could feel something more for him, that maybe there’s a reason more than friendship for why he’s holding Nick’s hand and why they’ve just shared their deepest, darkest fears with each other, then Nick is okay with that.

He’d like that very much.

 

*  *  *

 

Of fucking course Nick falls asleep. Because that’s what he does when he’s at Louis’ house. Falls asleep, drools, wakes-up and says something embarrassing. They haven’t known each other long but this is already a predictable pattern of behaviour Nick wishes he could wriggle out of.

The thing he’s not keen to wriggle out of, however, is Louis’ embrace. Because Louis appears to have fallen asleep too. He’s ended up behind Nick, the big spoon with his arms wrapped tightly around Nick’s waist and blowing little puffs of air against Nick’s neck every few seconds. Nick doesn’t know what to focus on more: how it feels to be held, Louis’ breath against his neck sending shivers down his spine, waking up without a hangover for the first time in forever, the smile he couldn’t wipe from his face even if he tried.

It’s been ages since Nick didn’t dread opening his eyes in the morning. It’s been ages since he didn’t wake with a heavy weight of dread pressing against his chest making it almost impossible to breathe. He doesn’t feel magically better and he still doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing with his life but for the first time in a long time he feels a tiny spark of hope blooming in his chest.

And as the great prophet Bruce Springsteen once said, you can’t start a fire without a spark.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t have predicted _this_ ,” says a voice behind Nick. A voice that is definitely _not_ Louis’.

Nick shoots up, knocking himself off balance and falling with a thump on the carpet. “Shit,” he cries out in pain. “Shit fuck pants bollocks! I’ve broken my arse!”

“Wha?” Louis groans, waking at the noise of Nick’s cursing. Groggily, he rubs his eyes as he peers down at Nick, face scrunched up in confusion. “What the fuck are you doing on the floor, Nick?”

Nick points to where Zayn is standing behind the couch, arms folded and a smirk on his face. And _that_ certainly wakes Louis up.

He peeks slowly over the back of the couch, cheeks stained pink. “Oh,” he says. “Um ...”

“Morning, Lou.” Zayn waves. “Don’t let me interrupt ... whatever this is.”

Louis casts a worried glance at Nick. “It’s nothing,” he rushes to say. “It’s definitely nothing.”

And, well.

Okay.

That didn’t feel like an ice-pick being rammed into Nick’s heart _at all_.

“What are you doing here anyway?” snaps Louis but Zayn doesn’t seem to mind his tone.

He grins, eyes flicking between Nick and Louis and back again. “Oh, I was just popping by to make sure you’d eaten and slept but I see Nick really _is_ a better man than me. Well done, bro.”

Louis pouts, frowning to himself. “It was an accident. Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mutters.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to apologise for falling asleep, you dickhead. It’s kind of a necessary human function. That and eating.” He nods to the empty pasta bowls on the coffee table. “Which I see you also did. Thank fucking Christ.”

Louis seems determined to ignore his manager now, pursing his lips and looking everywhere but Zayn. Zayn looks on with amusement.

“Any chance you wrote another song, mate? Something like _No Control_ , perhaps? Or maybe you were just researching it?”

The blush that creeps up Louis’ neck to his cheeks is both extraordinarily beautiful and baffling to Nick. He doesn’t get half of what the two are bickering about but it still makes him squirm. He can’t help but feel maybe they’re taking the piss out of him. It’s what people do these days, after all. And when Nick thinks about what it must look like – washed-up radio DJ turns up rambling about a biscuit tin only to cry and whinge about his silly problems before falling asleep – he feels embarrassed all over again. Gone is his certainty last night that Louis and he were becoming friends and the hope that maybe, _maybe_ , they could one day be more...

He’s such a loser.

“Don’t you have a record label to kiss arse?” says Louis, glaring at his manager.

“Yup! I absolutely do. So, I’ll be off then. Let you get back to _researching_.” Louis throws a couch cushion at Zayn’s head but he ducks. He grins widely before he’s waving again and heading out. “Remember: if there’s no glove, there’s no love,” he calls over his shoulder and then he’s laughing and slamming the front door behind him.

“Prick,” says Louis. He’s up on one elbow on his side, rubbing a hand through his soft, unstyled hair, causing his t-shirt to ride up and reveal the smooth, honey-hued skin of his belly. Nick licks his dry lips and looks away. “Just ignore him. He talks shit,” says Louis.

Nick nods. “I should go,” he croaks, standing with a wince. Did he really break his arse? Is that possible? Maybe it’s just the pain of all his hope dying out. Yeah, that hurts like a bitch.

“Oh,” says Louis. Nick thinks Louis must still be half-asleep because he looks confused for a moment, his brows furrowing deeply as he watches Nick pick up the jumper he took off yesterday when he got hot cleaning. “Yeah. Of course. Bet you’ve got lots to do,” he says, a careful edge to his voice.

Nick scoffs. “Not really. Not these days.” He pulls the jumper over his head and when he comes out the other side he sees Louis looking away, a flash of hurt distorting his features. Nick wonders what he missed.

“Well I do,” says Louis, standing up. He tidies the cushions and lays the blanket over the back of the couch, all without making eye contact with Nick once. “Got an album to write and I’m behind now, aren’t I.”

If Nick thought things were awkward before then it’s _nothing_ compared to what Louis’ tone of voice does to the room: it’s like a sheet of ice just settled over the lounge room in the blink of an eye and Nick doesn’t like it one bit. He doesn’t like that it was most likely his fault. Clearly Louis is uncomfortable with the fact that Nick fell asleep here again and that they woke up cuddling. Nick is sure this little crush he’s developed on Louis is so, so obvious and that’s what Zayn was laughing about. No doubt there’ll be articles soon, articles with quotes from sources ‘close to the pair’ revealing how Louis just wanted to be nice to Nick because he could tell the guy was having a bit of a breakdown only Nick is such a desperado he took it the wrong way and now he’s constantly drooling over poor Louis and Louis doesn’t know how to let him down gently.

“Better let you get back to it then,” he says and Louis nods.

“Yep.”

There’s an awkward pause where it’s like both of them are expecting the other to say something but neither one of them speaks. Nick ducks his head and with a small wave starts heading to the front door. How did it go from laughing and holding hands under the blanket and crying about how shit their lives are to _this_? He thought they were at least becoming friends but now it’s like Louis can’t even stand to be in the same room as him.

“Wait,” calls Louis and Nick’s heart starts to race.

He turns around and Louis is jogging over to him, Harry’s biscuit tin in his hand.

“Better not forget it again,” Louis says as Nick takes it. His face is cold and blank. “Zayn must have moved it because it was in the study. Wouldn’t want you to have to come back for it.”

And, well.

Okay.

Perfect.

Nick tucks the tin under his arm and smiles as warmly as he can manage, which isn’t very warm at all right now. This morning he woke with a spark of hope and the belief that he could Springsteen that hope into a fire. Right now, though? He’s pretty sure the universe just pissed all over his spark.

“Thanks,” he says, heading to the door. Louis watches him with his arms folded. “Good luck with the album. Try not to work too hard.”

Louis snorts. “I’d say the same to you but that’s not a problem for you, is it?”

Ouch.

Louis looks away and there’s something like regret on his face like he knows that was too harsh, too cruel, but he doesn’t say sorry and he doesn’t look at Nick again.

“Yeah. Guess not.” Nick just wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “If I see you at the Brits I’ll run the other direction, as promised,” he adds and then he turns and speed walks out of there before he bursts into tears.

As his boots crunch on the gravel driveway, he looks down at Harry’s biscuit tin and can’t decide if he wants to hug it close or toss it into the bushes with a roaring scream. He blinks because his vision is blurry with unshed tears. “Just get the hell out of here, Grimshaw,” he whispers to himself. “There’s nothing for you here.”

He holds his head high and walks away. He’s an adult and he can behave like one, thank you very much.

And if he cries all the way home then no one has to know but him.   

 

*  *  *

 

Louis is sitting at the piano, furiously scribbling out notes for _Here Without You_ ’s bridge when the music room door bursts open and in storms Fizzy. Louis _really_ needs to start locking his doors.

“Why is Zayn texting me about you and someone he calls ‘Vomit Guy’?” she says.

Louis glares at the music sheet. He’d actually written a cracking song this morning. _Take it Back_. It’s about saying and doing things you wish you could take back and, no, it had nothing to do with Nick and how Louis wished he could re-do this morning, take back his stupid temper tantrum, just swallow his ego and ask Nick to stick around. It had just hurt, is all, Nick saying he wanted to leave even though he had nothing to go home to. Even though things had been a bit awkward with Zayn being a total knobhead and trying to rile him up, Louis had kind of assumed they’d have breakfast together, maybe watch some more shit TV, make each other laugh with their commentary and hold hands under the blanket again. Louis had liked that. He’d liked it a lot. He’d liked Nick. There was something about him that calmed the storm in his head and he really, _really_ hadn’t wanted to let that go. Maybe he was being selfish but the whole thing between them felt too fragile to step away from. Like, they’d fallen unexpectedly and too quickly into a friendship and Louis was worried the second Nick stepped outside of Louis’ door he’d realise what a bore Louis was and he’d realise he didn’t want to spend any more time with him. So, when Nick said he was leaving, Louis had of course switched to dickhead mode and basically turfed the guy out without asking for his number or when they could see each other again. Just to hang out, like. Nothing more. Unless...

Fizzy pokes his shoulder. “Don’t ignore me, shithead. Zayn says some guy threw up all over you and then you spooned him. What the hell is that about and why am I hearing about your love life from Zayn?”

Frustrated, Louis turns around and pokes Fizzy’s side with his pencil until she squeals. “Not my love life,” he says, grabbing hold of her wrists when she tries to fight back. “Nick and I are just friends. Not even that. It’s a long story but it doesn’t end in me getting a boyfriend or anything like that. When I do, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?”

Fizzy escapes from his grasp and hip-checks him until he shifts along the piano stool to let her in beside him.

“Sing me a song, dickhead,” she says and even though Louis rolls his eyes he does what she asks because she’s his sister and Louis will always be a sucker for doing whatever the hell his sisters ask of him. He might not always return their calls when he’s in the song writing cocoon but he loves them something fierce and they know it.

He starts singing _Take it Back_ because it’s new and he doesn’t know if it’s any good yet and he kind of wants someone’s opinion on it. He thinks it might be good, though – he doesn’t want to admit it but the way his brain fires with creativity after spending time with Nick is ... terrifying. Like damn fireworks in his head.

By the end of the song Fizzy is looking at Louis with a mix of curiosity and knowing, and Louis has to poke her thigh until she’s squealing at him to stop just to take that look away because it makes him nervous.

“You can’t ask me to sing you a song and then look like _that_ at me,” he says, pouting. “I’m an artist, you little shit. You know how fragile our egos are.”

“You mean you’re a _man_ and all men have fragile egos but whatever,” she says and sticks her tongue out at him.

And, well. Louis can’t argue with that.

She sweeps her long brown hair into a messy bun on top of her head and not for the first time Louis has to look away because shit, out of all his sisters, Fizzy looks the most like their mum and sometimes it’s a bit hard to take. “And I loved the song okay. Really loved it,” she says.

“Then why were you looking like you were trying to figure out if I’d pissed in your cornflakes or not?”

Fizzy screws up her nose. “Gross. And I wasn’t. I was just trying to work out why my brother, who just told me he doesn’t have a love life, is writing love songs. That’s all.”

Louis’ cheeks heat up without his permission. Mutinous bastards. “It’s not a love song. It’s ...”

“It’s a fucking love song,” says Fizz, laughing.

Louis shakes his head. “It’s about a situation where you’ve done or said something you’d like to take back, is all. It doesn’t have to be about a relationship. It could be friends or even about you and me.”

“Gross. If you ever write a song like that and say it’s about me I’ll have you arrested, Lou.”

Louis folds his arms across his chest. “It’s not romantic, Fizz.”

Fizzy grabs the music sheet from off the piano before Louis can stop her. She starts reading the lyrics out loud despite Louis slapping at her hands in a weak attempt to get his song back. “With your back to me as I search for the words to say goodbye when I don’t want you to leave, I wonder if you’re searching too, if you want to stay too. But I can’t find the right words so I say all the wrong ones and I can’t take it back even though I want you back, I don’t ever want you to leave me.” She cocks a brow and fails to bite down her smile and Louis folds his arms and sulks. “Not romantic?” she says and then she’s holding a hand over her mouth to cover her losing battle against the smile because Louis knows he’s gone bright red and he knows the song is a fucking love song, all right, because maybe he’d gone and developed a teensy tiny crush on Nick Grimshaw even though he promised himself there’d be no romantic distractions in his life until he finished his album. He _knows_.

Shit.

“Okay, so maybe it’s a bit romantic,” he says and Fizzy cracks up.

She pushes his shoulder playfully. “It’s okay to fancy someone, you know.”

“Except I don’t,” mumbles Louis.

“Louis, you haven’t been able to fake a song in forever. You can’t help but pour your whole heart and soul into your lyrics, every time you sit down to write. You wouldn’t know how to make it up if you tried.” She pats his knee, placing the music sheet back. Her fingers hover over the sheets for _Here Without You_ but she doesn’t touch it. Her fingers tremble before she pulls back, folding her hands into her lap. “It’s why songwriting takes so much out of you,” she says and the laughter they’d shared just moments ago is suddenly a distant memory. All at once the room feels so very cold, so very breakable. “It’s why you’ve been lost to us for the past few months and why you’re going to stay lost until you work out how to say what you want to say most.”

Louis can’t bear to look at her right now. He keeps his eyes unfocused, staring into space. “And what do I want to say most?” he asks, quietly. He doesn’t want to hear the answer but he can’t help asking.

“That you miss her,” says Fizzy and if that isn’t a punch to his guts he doesn’t know what is. He thought his heart was as broken as it could be and there was nothing left to break. But he was wrong. He was so, so wrong.

Fizzy reaches over and grabs hold of his hand. “It’s okay, you know. We get it.”

Louis sinks into her side, his head on her shoulder.

“We miss you, of course. But we get it,” says Fizzy.

They sit there for a while, neither speaking but needing to feel the other by their side.  

“But you’ve distracted me, you little shit,” says Fizzy, nudging her shoulder until Louis has no choice but to lift his head from where it had been very comfortable, thank you very much, and look at his horrible sister with her horrible knowing smile and her horrible sparkling eyes. “Tell me all about Vomit Guy, and don’t leave out any details. Even the vomitty details.”

Louis can’t help rolling his eyes but he still tells her everything that’s happened with Nick, right up until his bruised ego had made him behave like a dickhead this morning. By the end of it, Fizzy’s eyes are wide and her mouth hanging open.

“I can’t decide if this is the beginning of the greatest love story or a scariest horror story ever. Sure he’s not likely to wear your skin as a suit?” she says and he elbows her.

“You kind of need to meet him to appreciate the weirdness,” he says with a chuckle. Because, yeah, Nick is hella weird but Louis found that beyond the strange, inexplicable calmness he felt around Nick there was more. Nick made him want to open up, to get lost in rambling, laugh-filled conversations and to be present in every moment instead of lost in a haze of anxiousness and self-criticism. And that realisation scared him more than anything. Because Louis needs to be focused to finished his album. He can’t afford the distraction.

“Oh, I expect to meet him,” says Fizzy. “Lottie and me have a new rule. You don’t get to date someone until we vet him. That way we can avoid another A-L-E-X situation. We already have the questions written out and everything.”

“You don’t need to spell out his name, Fizz. I can hear the word ‘Alex’ and not have a meltdown, all right? And I don’t think an interrogation is the best way to start a relationship, do you? Unless it means I get to vet all yours and Lottie’s prospective partners.”

“ _Pft_. As if.”

Louis reaches for his music sheets and shuffles them around uselessly, desperate for something to do with his hands. “Anyway, I told you. He’s not interested and I don’t date so this is all moot.”

Even though he’s not looking directly at her, Louis can feel the derision dripping from his sister. She laughs. “You don’t date but you write amazing love songs about a guy you just met? And he’s not interested even though he came all the way back here to pick up a biscuit tin – a crappy old biscuit tin worth about 50p that no one in their right mind would ever actually care enough about to bother coming back _twice_ for let alone hang around after you’ve fallen asleep to clean your house, have a heartfelt conversation with you and then spoon with you all night. But sure. He’s not interested.” Fizzy stares Louis down, shaking her head. “For a smart guy you’re really fucking dim, Lou.”

Louis turns away from her, mouth set in a firm line. He hasn’t got time for this shit. “I’m supposed to be working, Fiz. Haven’t you got school or something?”

“It’s the holidays, dickhead. And you’re always working. Haven’t you got an actual life to live or something?” She stands up and storms toward the door. Louis prays for his mound of music sheets to collapse on top of him and drown him so he doesn’t have to talk to open his stupid big gob and hurt the people he cares about ever again.

“Fiz,” he calls after her but she doesn’t stop. There’s no mistaking that Louis and Fizz are related – they’re both as stubborn as mules the pair of them.

When she gets to the door she swings around, fire in her eyes and Louis knows he’s in for a verbal whipping. He’d be annoyed if he didn’t know he deserved it. “Maybe you’ll write the best album of all time, Louis,” she says, eyes bright and fierce. “Maybe you’ll win a truckload of Grammys and be every music critic’s wet dream. And we both know mum will be looking down on you proud as punch. But will you be happy, Lou? Will you _really_ be happy? Because mum will be proud of you no matter what and no Grammy-winning album is going to make you miss her less. And the only thing mum ever wanted from you was for you to be healthy and happy. She knew writing music made you happy so she encouraged it but she never would have wanted this. She never would have wanted you to shut everything else out of your life just so you could make music. She’d want you to have it all – music _and_ friends and family and boyfriends and whatever else you want. The perfect love song isn’t going to hold your hand under the blanks and spoon you all night long, Louis.” Before Louis can respond, she’s sweeping out of the room and stomping through his house toward the front door. “And if I don’t see you back home in Doncaster for Sunday roast next weekend then I’ll personally drag you there myself, dickhead,” she shouts. The front door slams shut behind her, leaving nothing but stunned silence.

Louis lets his head fall into his hands and doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. God, he loves his sister but who the hell gave her permission to be smarter than him?

Louis sits there and breathes, just breathes. He counts the time between each breath and makes sure he drags the air all the way from down deep in his belly. Eventually, he sits up straight, rolling back his shoulders and placing his hands on the keys. He’ll play something. He’ll write a new song. He’ll rewrite an old one. He’ll do anything to escape from the chaos in his head; he’ll do anything to forget that the only thing he knows that will calm the chaos already left this morning, his one reason for returning tucked under his arm.  

He starts playing notes, whatever comes to his head first, but it’s a mess, just like the jumble of thoughts in his head. So, he stands and paces the room. He knows Fizzy is right but there’s a Grand Canyon-sized gap in his head between knowing his sister is right and knowing how to act on it. He wants to see Nick again but he’s scared. For the last three years it’s been nothing but music and now all he can think about is _Nick, Nick, Nick_. How the hell did that happen? How did it go from vomit on his shoes to _Nick, Nick, Nick_? What kind of strange magic is that? The scariest thing is being unable to deny how much freer his writing is when he gives into the _Nick, Nick, Nick_ and lets himself live a little. Live for the sake of living. Watch shit TV and cuddle and eat junk food and make stupid comments just to hear the other person laugh. He didn’t think he had time in his life for any of that but he was wrong. He was so wrong. Staring at the same four beige walls over and over doesn’t lead to inspiration; inspiration comes from crinkle-eyed smiles and unexpected snorts of laughter and the intake of breath when someone brushes their fingertips against your hand for the first time. How could he have been so wrong?

He just doesn’t know how to make it right. 

 

*  *  *

 

 _Harold_ _! I have your biscuit tin. You have no idea how much it cost me to retrieve it (blood, sweat, tears, dignity, etc.). Therefore, I am now officially holding it to ransom. It will cost you twenty bajillion dollars and a cuddle. So when are you going to pay the ransom, bitch?_

 

Nick presses send and slumps into the couch. He has three items on his list of things to do this afternoon and text Harry was the first one. He now has to decide which to do next: take a nap or call the big boss about his job. He’s leaning towards nap. Obviously. Because lord knows Nick still has no idea what to do about his job.

He wants to fall asleep and wake up when the whole thing has sorted itself out. That could happen, right? He could pull a Sleeping Beauty and let a bunch of dwarves and kindly forest animals sort his life out while he indulges in a bit of a coma. The fact that his mind automatically wonders if Louis will turn out to be the prince who kisses him awake is neither here nor there.

Fuck that. He is a modern man and he doesn’t need no fucking prince.

He hasn’t known Louis long enough to feel this kind of heartbreak anyway. They met, what, three times? He’s doing his usual thing of falling too hard and too fast for someone who isn’t even interested. Because his life wasn’t complicated enough his brain is adding an unrequited infatuation into the mix. Great.

Nick decides napping is the winner. Maybe the right decision will come to him in his dream (it _could_ happen. No, seriously. It _could_.). He can’t be bothered getting off the couch and walking all the way to his bedroom so he lies down where he is, pulling a rug over his lower half and setting his phone to play his ‘My Brain is a Trainwreck and I Need Gentle, Calm Music to Help Me Sleep’ playlist on a low volume. But of fucking course the first song is _All Along_ from Louis’ EP and the second that familiar tinkle of piano keys floats through the room, Nick is scrambling for his phone to skip the track. But he pauses, fingers hovering just above the phone, as Louis starts singing and Nick’s eyes flutter closed instead. Because even before he’d met him, Louis’ voice had a way of slipping under Nick’s skin and curling around every inch of his insides until he couldn’t tell where he ended and Louis’ voice began. It just makes him _feel_. And Nick doesn’t always want to feel but right now he does. So, he lets Louis’ voice soar through him and he _feels_ , he feels all the things he’s been trying to hold back from feeling. It hurts, of course, but it’s like a tooth ache, the kind of hurt that you can’t keep prodding at, that you almost love as much as you hate.

He feels tired.

He feels alone.

He feels lost.

When the song is over, Adele starts up but now Nick’s in the mood for twisting the knife all the way into his heart so he sets up Louis’ EP to play on repeat. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when Louis finishes an entire album and it’s out there for Nick to lose his mind over. He remembers the song he’d overheard the day he broke in. God, it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard – imagine a whole album of _that_? He tries to remember the lyrics, the snippets he’d managed to hear: _Tell me why I’ll never be here with you, tell me why I’ve got to be here without you? How does the world go on when you’re not in it, how can that be when you are my whole world?_ There are tears sliding down his cheeks before Nick can stop them.

“I never gave you permission to cry,” he mutters to himself, wiping the wetness away. “Suck it up, Grimshaw.”

He’s just about to contemplate saying a massive ‘fuck it’ to his list of things to do and just going out and getting pissed when his phone starts ringing. He wipes his eyes again quickly even though it’s a phone call and he won’t be seen. Taking a deep breath, he swipes to answer without even checking who it is.

“‘lo?”

“Grimmy!” It’s Harry, Nick would recognise his drawl anywhere. “You rescued my Nan’s biscuit tin. You’re like a proper action hero and all.”

Nick rubs his tired eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Do you have my money and, more importantly, do you have my cuddle?”

Harry laughs. In the background, Nick can make out traffic noises and the soft hum of talk-back radio so he guesses Harry is in a car, probably being escorted to some terribly cool party. Or if it’s day time in LA, maybe yoga or something equally horrifying. If Nick’s brain was quick enough to calculate the time differences between the UK and the States he might be able to work out which was more likely. But he’s not; he never is. It’s a nightmare for his friends and family whenever he goes away on holiday and ends up calling them for a chat at three in the morning.

“I’m cuddling you right now,” says Harry. “Can you feel it?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Nope. Hug harder, arsehole.”

“Yeah but more importantly have you opened the tin yet?”

Nick feigns a gasp of horror. “How very dare you, Harry! It’s your private property. You really think I would open it, just like that? You bastard!”

Harry giggles. “Yeah but you thought about it, didn’t you?”

“For literal hours now,” Nick admits. “It’s been the only thing on my mind.”

Okay, so he might be exaggerating a smidge because the main thing on his mind since this morning has been Louis and what the hell went wrong and why aren’t they still snuggled up together on Louis’ couch, holding hands and planning what Nick is going to do with his miserable life in between making each other snort with laughter. But that’s not to say a part of his brain hasn’t been reserved for wondering what Harry Styles, international popstar, heartthrob and certified weirdo would keep in a ye olde biscuit tin that was apparently ‘very, _very_ important.’ It had crossed his mind once or twice or fifty times since the tin had been sitting on his coffee table and he had _briefly_ considered taking a peek. He’d been close, too. His fingers had been touching the lid but then he got to thinking how it might be some weird sex thing and decided there were things he never wanted to know about his mates and the kinds of sex toys Harry Styles carried around in biscuits tins gifted to him by his Nan was high on that list. So, he left it alone and had gone back to moaning about his life and feeling sorry for himself and wondering what Louis was doing now.

“Then you should open it,” says Harry, matter-of-fact. He sounds like he’s eating something. “It’d be like a really weird version of _Deal or No Deal_. Or _Se7en_? Have you seen that film?”

“Please tell me Gwyneth Paltrow’s severed head is not in your nan’s biscuit tin, Harry.”

Harry snorts. “Nah. But, like, you should open the tin, Grimmy.”

Nick closes his eyes. A wave of homesickness blankets him suddenly. How is that even possible? He’s literally sitting in his _home_ and yet he feels exactly the same as when he’s been away for too long, those long drawn out weeks away when you miss your pillow and your favourite coffee mug and cuddles with your dog and, God, you even miss the sound of your elderly neighbour watching _EastEnders_ through the thin walls. Maybe it’s a kind of homesickness for how things used to be. Maybe it’s happysickness, missing what it feels like to be happy. Or when-I-used-to-love-my-life-and-I-hadn’t-alientated-all-my-friends-and-I-loved-my-job-and-I-didn’t-feel-so-heartbreakingly-alone-all-the-time-sickness. Nick knows he misses his friends and talking to Harry makes him realise just how much. He hopes it’s not too late and that he hasn’t alienated them forever because God he aches with how much he misses them. He sighs. “Just tell me when you’re coming back to the UK so I can trade you a hug for it,” he says.

Harry _tsks_ at him down the line. “First of all, you never need to trade me anything for hugs. You have free hugs for life, Grim. I’ll get you a certificate made up: ‘this certificate entitles the holder to free hugs for life from Harry Styles’ or something like that. Second of all, I’m not coming back for a bit. I’ve got a couple of auditions and then we’re writing the next album and it’s all a bit chaotic. Sorry. I really am. But third of all, open the fucking tin, Grimmy.”

Nick frowns. “Why do you want me to–”

“Just open the tin, Nick.”

“But–”

“Open. The. Tin.”

“Harry, I’m not going to–”

“Oh no, Nick! I’m in a car and we’re about to go through a tunnel and _gskkkkk_.” Nick drops his head to his hand and laughs because Harry actually tries to make the static noises. Only he’s shit at faking it so it just sounds like a cat is being strangled.

“ _Sghkksghhhh..._ The tunnel’s really long and I ... _Gssrrkkkkkghs ..._ Just open the fucking tin, Nick. No questions asked _gggssskkkhhh.”_

“Oh my God, H.”

“It’s the tunnel’s fault, not mine.” He’s giggling. Like a child. God, Nick loves him to pieces. He’s missed his friends _so much._ “Love you! Bye! Thanks for getting the tin back! Love you! Open the fucking tin! Bye!”

Before Nick can get another word in, Harry hangs up on him. Again. The bastard.

Nick pouts at his phone until a text comes through. It’s Harry: _Not sure if I made this clear just now so_ ... _open the fucking tin!!!!!_

He tosses his phone onto the couch and pulls the tin into his lap. Nick can take a hint.

 _Okay, Harry_ , he thinks, _if this is a dildo you’re dead to me._

Nick rues all those missed trips to the gym as he struggles to pull the lid off the tin and then he almost brains himself with his own forearm when the lid suddenly slips free. Cursing Harry’s name for what feels like the millionth time, he tosses the lid onto the couch beside his phone and peers into the mostly empty tin.

Mostly empty except for the note.

Fuck.

Nick does need another note in his life.

At least this one couldn’t have been written by Drunk Nick.

Maybe Drunk Harry, though? What would Drunk Harry write about? God, sober Harry is weird enough, Nick shudders to think what Drunk Harry would write about. And why would he want Nick to read it?

He lifts the note paper out and carefully unfolds it; his hand is shaking. It’s definitely Harry’s handwriting and it looks neat enough to be Sober Harry’s handwriting. That’s one positive at least.

His breath is coming out short and sharp and he can feel his heart bashing against his rib cage like it’s desperate to be released because there is no way it wants to be around when Nick reads what’s on the note. Nick and notes haven’t had a good relationship of late so Nick can’t blame his heart for wanting to scarper.

 _Dear Nick_ , says the note, _I didn’t actually need this tin (sorry!). I just wanted you to meet Louis Tomlinson when you weren’t throwing up on him and I knew you would never go out of your way to see him again if I didn’t make up a reason for you to. Because he is one hundred percent your type, one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met and if you didn’t fall arse over tits for him in the time it took you to rescue my biscuit tin then I will eat my hat (that massive brown fedora you used to take the piss out of me for wearing even though you know I looked fucking fabulous in it, you lying liar). So, you should totally ask him out._

_I know you hate when I meddle in your love life but ... fuck it._

_Oh, and ps? I don’t know what’s going on right now because you’re not talking to anyone and I refuse to believe anything in the papers but I hope you know how amazing you are. And even though you’re really fucking brilliant at being a radio DJ, it’s just a job, isn’t it? All the qualities that you have make you good at your job but your job doesn’t make you good at being you. You do that. All by yourself. And I know you, Nick. I know you’ll be moaning about how you were demoted and how everybody thinks you’re a failure but that’s not it. That’s not the problem, is it? The problem is that you’ve outgrown your job and even if you were still doing Breakfast you’d be in the same position. You just don’t know how to move on because you think you’re nothing without that job. But that’s bollocks. You’re everything without that job and, no matter what, you’re one of my favourite humans. So, can you please quit with the self-sabotage (it’s so last season, darling). Call Collette or Daisy or Aimee or anyone really and talk it out. You’ll feel better. Maybe talk to Louis about it (hint, hint). Yeah, definitely talk to Louis about it._

_pps: ask Louis out. I’m serious. I will make you eat my hat if you don’t._

_Bye! Love you! Sorry about tricking you (but also not sorry!)_

_H._

 

Nick is dumbstruck.

He didn’t have to rescue the tin.

He committed a _felony_ for nothing.

He made a fool of himself in front of Louis Tomlinson over and over again because Harry was trying to set them up.

Nick doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry or scream or do all three at once. He does end up doing something like all three – a sort of choking, hiccupy, screamy, giggly wail. By the end of it, he’s just laughing. He’s laughing so hard his face is red and he needs his inhaler. He’ll kiss Harry when he sees him next: kiss him, hug him, then knee him in the fucking balls. He leans back and slowly catches his breath.

Harry is right, of course. Louis is his type. And even though he’d much rather ask Louis out on a date than eat Harry’s fugly fedora he knows there’s no chance Louis would say yes. Not after this morning. But it still makes him smile to think of Harry planning this whole thing. Because that’s how much of a bonehead romantic his mate is: he saw two of the most messed up people in England and thought, yep, I’m going to see if I can get these two to fall in love. Nick can imagine Cupid pissing himself with laughter right about now, safe in the knowledge that his job will never be threatened by one Harry Edward Styles.

The other stuff though, about Nick being more than his job? Nick liked hearing that. Nick definitely needed to hear that. He’s not sure he believes it yet but it seems like the kind of thing that might sink in after a while. Because the sneaky little bastard is right: everything Nick is, he’ll still be without his job. And that’s really what this whole thing has been about, hasn’t it? Nick had worked so hard for so long to achieve his dream – so what happens when it’s no longer your dream? Nick had thought he was synonymous with his job: Nick Grimshaw, Radio One DJ. But he was _more_ than that. He was always _more_ than that.

All at once, the knowledge that it’s time for Nick to move on settles deep in his bones. He wishes he didn’t need someone else to tell him what he needed to hear in order to come to that decision but such is life. Then again, friendship has always been important to Nick and he’s never managed to make a life-changing decision without long, long (mostly drunken) consultations with his friends. Maybe that’s why he’s been pushing them away – because this is the biggest, most life-changing decision Nick has ever had to make and he knew that as soon as he sat down with one of his friends and actually talked about it he would be forced to admit he wanted to quit. Forced to admit that he wanted to leave the one thing he thought made him who he was and forced to confront who he’d be if he wasn’t a Radio One DJ. Trust Harry to be the one to sneak his way into his Nick’s head with an elaborate ye olde biscuit tin recuse mission and force him into honestly confronting what he deep down already knew.

Nick grabs one of his hardly used journals and writes a new to-do list:

 

  1. Call and apologise to _everyone_ (grovel if necessary).
  2. Call Bernardo? Benedict? Burton? and QUIT MY JOB HOLY SHIT!!!!
  3. Plan revenge on Harry (involve Louis??? If he doesn’t already hate me??? Why does he hate me?).
  4. Work out why Louis hates me.
  5. Have a quiet night in (Do _not_ , under any circumstances, leave the house. Do _not_ give the Daily Mail tomorrow’s front cover)



 

He pauses for a moment, pen resting against his lip and thinks. Then he adds one more item.

 

  1. Contact Mary Berry about _Gogglebake_ idea.



 

There.

He tosses the journal and the pen onto his coffee table and feels accomplished. He might not have actually done the things on his list but writing them down still feels like a weight off his shoulders. Maybe he could do a TV show where he helps people sort out their lives by making lists. That could work. It’d be a real tear-jerker too.

Hours later once he’s chickened out of calling all his friends and instead sent a group text ( _sorry I’ve been an arsehole. No excuse, just having a mid-life crisis. Dinner at mine soon so I can make it up to you?_ ) and emailed his official notice of resignation after a tear-filled phone conversation with Brandon? Boyston? Burton?, Nick is eating a curry on his couch and responding to the barrage of ‘You’re a massive dick but we still love you and you’d better make it a roast dinner with chocolate pudding’ texts from his friends, when Nick gets a rather unexpected text from an unknown number.

 

_Hey. It’s Louis._

 

Nick starts at the phone, his body temperature plummeting. Before he can even begin to think about what the hell is happening, another three texts come through in quick succession.

 

_Tomlinson._

 

_Louis Tomlinson._

 

_Got your number from Harry._

 

Nick’s eyes grow wide. Fucking Harry. Nick’s heart rate is out of control. There’s another _ping_ and two more messages arrive:

 

_Hope that’s okay. Promise I’m not planning on stalking you or anything (that’s your job, isn’t it??? Haha)._

 

_Anyway. You left something at mine. Can you come pick it up?_

 

Nick frowns at the phone. An unwelcome rush of hope pours through him: he fancies me! This is him trying to get me back over to his house! He’s going to jump my bones the second I walk in there! We’re going to get married and have babies! A boy and a girl! And five dogs!

But then Nick remembers this morning – Louis had been so cold, so angry at Nick, so desperate to see Nick leave. So, no. This is nothing. This is nothing more than the simple case of a nice guy letting Nick know he’d left something behind. But what? Nick could have sworn he took everything with him.

Nick’s bites on his lip, fingers hovering over the phone screen, as he contemplates what to write back. Harry might think Louis and Nick were destined for a grand romance but Nick knows better. 

He settles on something simple, friendly, and hopefully not showing any of the I-wish-you-fancied-me-like-I-fancy-you gushiness he feels.

 

_What did I leave behind? And when do you want me to come around? (It’s okay about the number. I don’t mind)_

 

Nick presses send and then freaks out. He rereads the text ten times, analysing it for any slips into please-date-me-and-love-me-forever tones he might have missed and then groans loudly. As if deciding to quit his job wasn’t a big enough deal he now needs to angst over a boy who doesn’t even fancy him back. Why couldn’t Harry have just meddled in one part of his life only?

Nick’s phone _pings_ and he just about breaks his finger rushing to open the message.

 

_Well, I’m home now for a bit if you’ve got the time. Otherwise I might be out and I don’t want you to have to break in again. Hahaha._

 

Nick can’t help grinning at the text. Even if Louis doesn’t fancy him he’s starting to think maybe they have a good chance of being friends, despite this morning. Nick could deal with that. Sure, it would come with a lot of pining and heartbreak but Louis is that kind of special person you make exceptions for, Nick thinks. Anyway, clearly Louis’ grumpy mood this morning was simply that: a grumpy mood. Maybe he’s not a morning person. Maybe he got out of the wrong side of the bed. Or couch. Maybe Nick’s snoring (which, he still maintains is a vicious lie – he does _not_ snore) kept him up half the night.

He holds his breath as he texts back:

 

_Okay._

 

_I’ll come over now._

 

He hits send and lets his head roll back, breathing out deeply as he stares up at the ceiling. Looks like Nick is going on one more adventure across town.

 

*  *  *

 

It’s late afternoon and growing darker by the minute by the time Nick lands on Louis’ doorstep. He panics for a moment, wondering if he should have brought food. Is it rude to turn up at someone’s house at this time of day without food? Should he turn around and head for the Sainsbury’s he saw down the road? Or would that make it seem like Nick wanted to turn this into a date? But maybe that depends on the kind of food you bring. Like, does pizza say something different to Thai? What does Mexican say? What says ‘I really want to spend more time with you because you’re the first person in a long time that I’ve met that understands me even before I understand myself and you’re talented and fit and I liked holding your hand but if you only want to be friends that’s cool too’?

Before he’s even knocked, the door swings open to reveal Louis with soft, unstyled hair and flushed cheeks. Instead of his usual joggers and a t-shirt, he’s wearing ripped jeans and an oversized Givenchy sweater. He looks adorable.

“You came,” says Louis. He sounds surprised.

Nick’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he squeezes his eyes shut tight and takes a breath in an attempt to reboot his brain. It works. Sort of. “I’m out of a job,” he says, “and I think you need someone to take care of your security. And no one knows the weaknesses of your security better than me so ... Hire me?”

  Louis nods slowly as if seriously considering the idea of Nick as his security guard. “Better come through for your interview then,” he says and steps aside.

Nick wipes his boots on the mat before shuffling past Louis and into the familiar beige entryway.

Louis leads them to the lounge and then waits, hands on hips, in the middle of the room, looking at Nick expectantly. Even though it’s his house and he was the one to ask Nick to come over, Louis doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at Nick like he could vanish any second, a deep blush high on his cheek bones. Nick is really, really confused – does Louis legitimately think this is an interview now?

“So,” says Nick. “You said I left something behind?”

Louis frowns. “I did?”

Nick pauses to check he hasn’t gone insane and didn’t imagine the whole text conversation. God, wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake. He pulls out his phone and is about to scroll through their texts just to make sure when Louis thumps his palm to his forehead.

“No, yeah. Shit. I did. I did say that. Because you did. You left ... um ... “ He looks around the mostly tidy room before he spies a jacket slung over the back of one of the armchairs. It’s Louis’ jacket. An oversized Kappa denim jacket that he’d been wearing the day he’d come into the studio for the Interview from Hell. Nick remembers because he’d contemplated stealing it right off Louis’ back. Louis lunges for the armchair and grabs the jacket, turning to brandish it at Nick.

“This!” he says. “You left this behind.”

Nick slowly shakes his head. He’s trying to work out if this is a prank of some sort. “That’s not my jacket, Louis,” he says.

Louis looks at the jacket dangling from his grip, frowning deeply enough to have Nick wondering if it really is his jacket and he simply forgot. “You sure?” Louis says but then he shrugs and throws the jacket back over the armchair. “Oh. Sorry. I figured it must have been yours.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking at his feet. “I guess now that you came all this way you could, like, stay or whatever?”

Louis won’t look Nick in the eye, which is ... too much for Nick to contemplate right now. He’s scared of reading too much into everything that Louis does, only seeing what he wants to see. Sure, Louis appears to have invented a reason for Nick to come over but that doesn’t have to mean anything. It could just be a peace offering for the shitty events of this morning.

“All right,” says Nick.

“Cool,” says Louis. He’s looking everywhere but Nick. “That’s ... that’s cool. Take a seat then.” He ducks his head and messes about with his fringe, but Nick can see he’s trying to hide a smile. “I’ll get us some food and we can watch shit TV or maybe you’ll want to talk about your job. Or, _not_ your job, which is the bit you might want to talk about. Um. Yeah. So. Take a seat?” He waves at the beige couch. “I’ll be back.” He hurries off toward the kitchen, a bounce in his step.

Nick sits on the edge of the couch, nervously chewing his nails. _Just friendship_ , he tells himself. He repeats it like a mantra in his head. _Just friends. Just laddy lads. Just mates. Just a mate I really want to have sex with and cuddle and marry and have babies with ..._

Shit.

Louis comes back with bags of take out. He sets a variety of containers on the coffee table and when he pops off the lids Nick can see it’s meze. He can’t help flicking his eyes to Louis as he busies himself setting it all up. What does meze mean? Does it mean let’s be dude bro laddy pals? Or does it mean I fancy you but I don’t know how to say it? Nick wishes food was more like flowers. They’ve got meanings that people have agreed upon. You can google ‘yellow roses’ and it will tell you what someone means when they give a bunch of yellow roses to you. Can you google food like that? Nick actually places a hand over his jeans’ pocket where his phone is sitting and thinks about surreptitiously taking it out and googling but he’s pretty sure that would be mad. Nick is probably the only person in the world who thinks this deeply about the meaning behind food.

It’s just meze between friends.  _Just friendship,_ _just friendship,_ _just friendship ..._

“Hope you like Lebanese,” says Louis. Nick’s only had it once or twice before but he didn’t mind it.

“Love it,” he says.

Louis is on the floor, sitting crossed legged, and it seems like he’s going to stay there. Nick feels like a dickhead on the couch all by himself so he slides onto the ground beside Louis and digs into the food when Louis tells him to.

“So, are we pretending you didn’t tell me you’re out of a job or do you want to talk about it?” says Louis, wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Nick wants to ask if they’re pretending Louis didn’t invent a reason for Nick to be here but he doesn’t think that would go down so well. So, he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I quit my job this afternoon,” and watches a variety of emotions cross Louis’ face. It’s interesting to Nick that the first reaction is clearly elation.

“But wait.” Louis narrows his eyes. “Is this a good thing or a bad thing. Do I cheer or commiserate?” 

“It’s a good thing,” Nick says so Louis cheers, waving his arms in the air and shouting, “oi oi!”.

And god, Nick never thought his cheeks would hurt from smiling so much about having quit his job. How is that even possible? “It was the most traumatic decision I’ve ever made but someone who usually talks a load of shit actually said something that made sense to me. He basically said I’d gotten myself mixed up with my job. Like, I thought I’d be nothing without my job but that’s not true. So, when I started feeling like I was over it, that I didn’t want to be doing my job anymore, I acted out. And, yeah, I was embarrassed because of how publicly the whole thing played out, being asked to do Drive instead of Breakfast. But that was like a decoy or something. Or it was just symptomatic of me being so utterly terrified of being nothing without my job. I saw what I thought was a huge part of myself, my very soul, being taken away from me so I panicked.”

Louis is watching him, a small smile on his lips and softness in his eyes. Nick has always loved talking to people but there’s something special about Louis that makes him feel fifty feet tall when he has Louis’ full attention like that.  

“I don’t know, I find it hard to explain but I know that I’m more than my job and I know it’s time to move on.”

Louis pats Nick’s knee, leaving his hand there and running it up to his thigh, squeezing gently. “I’m happy for you,” he says and Nick can tell he means it.

“I’m happy for me too,” says Nick. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still scared as fuck but I’m happy too.”

They smile at each other until it gets awkward and Nick has to look away, grabbing and shoving the first thing his hand finds into his mouth.

“How about you?” he asks when he swallows. He has to wipe his fingers with a napkin because whatever that was he just shoved into his mouth it was sticky as fuck. “How’s the album going?”

Louis goes cross eyed and Nick laughs.

“That good, huh?”

“Actually,” says Louis and Nick can’t help but notice his hand is still on Nick’s thigh, “I had a similar experience to you.”

Nick raises his brow in question. Either the food is hotter than he thought or Louis’ hand on his thigh is having an effect on him because he can feel the sweat beading on his forehead. _Just friends, just friends, god I want to kiss him ..._

“I got a talking to by someone as well. My sister actually. One of my sisters – I’ve got a thousand of them. Anyway, she said some stuff and made me think about how I was maybe just afraid.” Louis looks down at his lap. “I think I keep writing songs and rewriting songs and convincing myself the album isn’t ready because I’m scared that it _is_ ready. And if it is ready I have to put it out there and ... “

“And then who are you? If you’ve gone and done that thing you told your mum you’d do then what next, right?”

Louis’ eyes shine but he smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “If I’m not locked in my room trying to write the perfect album then I don’t know who I am. And I’m scared that I’ll have nothing because I shut myself away for too long and I don’t know how to just be _me_. I think I forgot how to be anything other than someone who misses his mum so much he can hardly breathe.”

Without thinking, Nick lifts his hand and runs his thumb gently along Louis’ cheek, wiping away the moisture quickly gathering there. Louis doesn’t take his eyes off Nick and Nick finally understands. This is important – whatever this is, friendship or more – it’s important. Nick already knows that whatever role Louis fills in his life, it’s going to be the most important one. It feels strange being at the beginning of something he doesn’t really understand but all the while still knowing that it’s going to define him and shape him and mean more to him than anything has before. It’s scary but not the kind of scary you want to run away from. It’s the kind of scary you want to run headlong into.

When it gets too much, Nick pulls his hand away and looks back at the food. “This is a good start then,” he says. “Food, conversation, crap TV. I’d suggest going out for a dance and a drink but I think I need to lay off that sort of thing for a while.”

Louis smiles at him, using a napkin to wipe his nose. “We just have to find the balance, right? We have a night in for you but we do silly, meaningless shit for me. Like, no drinking but we can chuck ABBA on and have a dance.”

Nick returns his smile. “Sounds brilliant, only one problem.”

“Yeah?”

Nick nods, solemnly. “I can’t dance.”

Louis scratches his chin like he’s thinking. “I guess I’ll have to find another way to have fun.”

“Gonna be hard,” says Nick. “Dancing to ABBA is properly the only way to have fun, you know.”

Louis laughs, resting his head on Nick’s shoulder. Nick finds himself holding his breath for as long as he can. Maybe he doesn’t want to startle Louis. Maybe he doesn’t want to do anything that would ever push Louis away from him.

“I know, right?” says Louis, fondness in his voice. “Only I was thinking.” He settles in closer, pressing into Nick’s side and slipping his hand into Nick’s, intertwining their fingers like he’d done the night before. Nick feels like a rocket ship, ready to launch. God, he hopes it’s one of those safe rockets, the ones that made it to the moon and back in one piece and not one of the ones that exploded like a firework.

“What were you thinking?” he says.

“Well, dancing wasn’t the only thing I shut out of my life,” says Louis. “I shut guys out too. Romance and all that. Said I wouldn’t date but ...”

“But?” Nick’s voice cracks. His heart is hammering in his chest.

“But I’m holding your hand.”

“Yes,” says Nick. “Yes, you are.”

“And we’ve just eaten a fancy meal.”

“We have.”

“And I’ve got my best jumper on.”

“It’s a gorgeous jumper.”

“And later ... later I’m going to kiss you.”

A breath catches in Nick’s throat. This is almost too much. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. It couldn’t be real, could it? Could Louis really want him too? “You ... you are?”

He feels Louis nodding against his chest. His heart soars to the moon and back again.

“So maybe this is a date?” says Louis. “Or, I mean, it could be? Even though I got you here under false pretences.” For the first time Louis sounds uncertain and, well, that won’t do. That won’t do at all. Nick wraps his free arm around Louis’ shoulders and squeezes him tight.

“It could be,” he says, lips brushing against Louis’ so soft hair as he speaks. “It definitely, definitely could be.”

“Good,” says Louis. He tilts his head until he can look at Nick and his smile is literal sunshine. Louis Tomlinson is the sun and the stars and the moon and everything. “So, because this is a date and there’s a kiss on offer at the end of it, you’ll do anything I say, right?” he asks.

Nick laughs. “If I’m honest? Yeah. Yes, I will.”

Louis looks incredibly pleased with himself and Nick makes a mental note to always make Louis look that way. He can’t believe he’s this lucky.

“Good,” says Louis and Nick wants to trace the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. He wants to know every detail about Louis freaking Tomlinson.

“So, after we’ve had a bit of a cuddle,” says Louis, “and watched more superheroes engage in violent mating rituals, held hands for a bit, talked about what amazing options you have ahead of you for your next career move, then ...Well, then we’re dancing to ABBA. Because it’s the only proper way to have fun, and you and me are going to have fun. I command it.”

And yeah. That’s exactly what they’re going to do. Because Nick wouldn’t dance to ABBA for just anyone. He wouldn’t open his heart for just anyone either. But as he looks into Louis’s open, smiling face and feels the warm press of his body against him, he knows that Louis isn’t just anyone.

“I like the sound of that,” Nick says. “I like it very much.”


End file.
